It's an almost refreshing feeling, trying to pack up your life and put it in little bags. It makes me realize what's important to me, as I take up precious space within my backpack for my notebooks and papers from years past. It'll be heavy, but I don't mind. I fill the rest of the space and the space of a small suitcase with clothes I'll wear, a couple sweaters, little necessities, bathroom oddities, five blue ink pens, a couple photographs, Little Earthquakes, a couple things of sentimental value that don't deserve to be left in my drawer.

I know I'm missing something but I can't think about what it is. I move all my important files, all the writing I've done on my computer, and move it somewhere I know it'll be safe. I start up a hotmail account because I won't be able to log back in here, and make sure I don't lose anything precious. Not again.

I write down email addresses and regular addresses and phone numbers, just in case, not wanting to lose touch and wondering if it would matter if I did. I don't know where I'm going, and I certainly don't know how I'll get there, with two dollars and 37 cents to my name, a research project due in three days that I can't possibly finish now. Maybe I should be frantic. But I'm not.

I feel bad about leaving all my books, not knowing where they'll end up, not wanting them to be packed away into an attic, unread and untreasured. All my CDs, and all my space, but it doesn't really matter, anyway. I guess I've never stopped running away, and I wonder if that's what I'm doing now, but I don't think it's all bad. Where will I go? they ask, and I don't know. I've done it before, and I've had nowhere to go, and I'm not really worried.