When you move as much as I have in this life, you lose track of the count pretty early. By the time I was four, I'd lived in about 5-6 houses. Which is stable compared to some, but I think there's a lot of people out there who live in one or two houses growing up. I've continued the vagabond lifestyle into adulthood.
I love moving- the idea of it, the excitement, wondering what is around the next corner... I even love helping other people pack and move their stuff, as if the excitement of their life change will rub off on me.
So today, I am moving again- out of my three-month apartment, into my car, to stay with a friend for a while in North Carolina where I can sort of leisurely look for jobs and let my mind settle. Re-entering American soil and it's associated agenda is not a small mental feat. Deciding where to settle when you have no roots is not easy either.
The weeks up to the finale of this job filled me with mental frenzy. One of my friends said, "You have done this so many times, why all the angst each time?" I try to control it, but I think it is just like the last fight before bed. I am inherently high strung, and although I've been told I have flower-child personality, when it comes to big changes, stress rises to the surface and makes me feel crazy. But I keep doing it anyway. At least I can say that I'm not a quitter!
Anyway, the calm has arrived, and my room is shiny spotless, ready to leave in my dust.
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