Aug 17

Moving Out

I thought I was good at this.
The whole
"Say goodbye and move on"
ordeal.
I told myself it was routine
and it was exhilarating every time.
I used to hail change as my savior,
because it felt like despite
my stable home
I was still wrapped in a blanket
of turmoil.

I love adventuring.
I love the unfamiliarity.
I crave chaos like it craves me.
There was nothing I loved more
than my muscles twitching with anticipation
just waiting for my next move,
the spontaneity
and the unexpected
that was vast enough to swallow me whole.
I loved that.

Or so I thought.

I was raised in this world
to move like a sprint,
to pounce as if it was my vice.
I was fine with that,
I accepted that and believed it.

Why am I hesitating?
Why are there clothes scattered on my floor,
littered like the bodies of old versions of myself?
Why are the boxes and the bags and the labels downstairs
haunting my nights?

All of a sudden,
I'm frozen to the spot.
I'm paralyzed with fear,
and it's struck me straight through
to my core.
I'm reminded I'm still a child,
lost
and in love with my family.
I love my friends
and my safety,
and it's getting harder to tear myself away from that.
The blisters on my hands from scissors
are expanding
and they're ready to burst
as I snip at every last tie.
Goodbye is the last thing I wish to say.

I thought I was good at this.