I’m sitting in a room in my sorority house. I have my purse, my laptop, and a paper cup with a flower in it. This morning, this was my room, but I can’t really say that anymore.
I began packing on Monday–nothing large was moved, no clothing came out of drawers, but I did take a few decorations off my walls. Every time I move out of a dorm room(this will be my fourth), I remove the decorations first. The entire packing process takes many hours, but the fact that I can rip myself from the walls of my room in mere minutes is the most satisfying.
I only moved houses once in my life- my family moved about a block down the street when I was nine years old. I remember writing “I DON’T WANT TO MOVE” repeatedly on the white board in my room before an open house; my mom let me leave it there until I was ready to wipe it off and move away.
On the last day of my freshman year of college, I remember looking at my dark, empty dorm room, handing my RA my key, and shutting the door for the last time. I lived and grew up and changed my life inside the walls of Southwest 269, but the room didn’t change at all. A side from my name and year of residence I graffiti’d on the back of a closet door, the room looked exactly as it had the previous August. I drove my overstuffed car home and never visited Southwest again and something about the fact that I was able to do that felt… good.
I enjoy the impermanence of it all. It constantly reminds me that my life experiences and the essence of who I am are not contained by the walls of the room where I fall asleep each night. I’ll move back home in a few hours and I’ll still be me. I’ll move to San Francisco, back to school, to my parents house, then to London, and I’ll still be me.
Maybe, one day, I’ll want to settle down and allow myself to become a part of the place where I live, but not yet. This constant change, the constant feeling of discomfort as I struggle to find a new routine, develop one, then rip myself from it and begin anew, is comfortable to me.
One of my many projects for May is getting rid of things. I want my entire life to be condensed from truck to car so I can move to San Francisco by myself. In eight months, my entire life will have to fit in suitcases and fly with me to the other side of the world. The fewer things I own, the more “me” I become. I hope that makes sense.
Anyway, I’ve got to go check out of this room. Return the key, look back on the empty room, sigh. Shut the door, play the music, roll credits. Don’t worry though, another show will be starting in about three minutes.