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.