And it only just sank in that this isn't going to be my home for very much longer.
This happens to me every time I move; I'm in the middle of packing, or procrastinating, or whatever, and I look around and I suddenly realize that the room where I'm standing, the one with my bed and my desk and my however many years of memories, is going to be somebody else's Home in about 24 hours. I'm going to be standing in a new room, looking around at a new set of walls with my bed positioned differently relative to my bed. Will I even have room for both my chest of drawers and my bookcase? Where will I hang my calendar? Where will my cork board live?
I inevitably find myself going back to my first memory of my current home, looking at a now-familiar space through the memory of new eyes. It always seems bizarre, at this stage of the journey, it's always all but impossible to remember thinking my bedroom once looked foreign, that I wasn't sure about the closet, that the electrical outlets were weird and how unsettling it was to be sleeping in a space where I owned none of the furniture. By the same logic, the strange space I'm going to be moving into tomorrow will be as comfortable and precious to me as this place is now ...
I have, on occasion, been told that I think too much. Right now, I might almost be inclined to miss them.
Goodbye, oldroom. You were weird, and your windows sucked, but you were good to me, all things considered. I will miss you.