One think that chronological order might be intelligent, but that seems a little too logical for my taste.
There’s a strange feeling somehow about packing up your things every few months and moving. The bedroom is always the strangest. Completely removing your essence from a place of privacy and solitude to which you called “home” for a time… The feeling is impossible to replicate. It’s sad, nostalgic, a myriad of other mixed emotions.
This is my will-be-old-tomorrow room. In a state of disorganization I wish I could blame on moving, this little moment captures how it normally is, or was. With things sprawled across the floor that I hadn’t had a chance to find a proper place for, strange galaxy goat tea towel-turned-tapestry staring at me from the fall, a guitar and laptop accompanying me in bed (if I wasn’t playing the guitar, then the laptop would be howling of anthems to my solitude). A room is just a room, four walls, but these four walls hold such a special meaning to me.
Leaving things behind, as big as a family, as small as a room, is strange. I am caught somewhere in between deciding whether or not this strange is good or bad. Bittersweet, to say the least.