I'm sitting in my room, packing for my imminent departure, and pretending that I'm getting something out of the organization.
Truth is I'm not. It's silly, and more than a little sappy, but every time I pack away something, I feel like it's a little piece of my life as it stands being sealed - or perhaps entombed. Packing away my BBA t-shirt is, a little ridiculously, the most difficult thing I've done in a long time. Wait until I get to packing away my underwear; never again will those tiny garments be worn out into SoCal air. It almost brings a tear to my eye.
I think I'm struggling with this because packing is, while productive and necessary, tacit acknowledgment that this best of years is over. I don't know why I've associated clothes with memories - each garment reminds me of something I did or someone I know - but the link is there, it is real, and it is emotionally trying.
My first suitcase is full now, but I can't gather the gumption to close the latch.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Inaugural
Little to celebrate in the beginning of a blog: it is generally insignificant; subjectively a-historical and; often, lexical masturbation.
On that latter description well - everyone does it, but there should hardly be a fanfare every time you finish a bout, right?
So here it is.
A blog.
The word is odd:
Blog.
Satisfying to say, more so to partake in. It rings of ages, the writing of experience - neatly summarized in a mono-syllabic package for this impatient century.
Blog.
Blog. (I wanted to say it one more time)
On that latter description well - everyone does it, but there should hardly be a fanfare every time you finish a bout, right?
So here it is.
A blog.
The word is odd:
Blog.
Satisfying to say, more so to partake in. It rings of ages, the writing of experience - neatly summarized in a mono-syllabic package for this impatient century.
Blog.
Blog. (I wanted to say it one more time)
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