More Musing on Moving

I liked having a house. No one was on any side, I could play music as loudly as I wanted, I had a porch with a wide-enough rail that I could sit on, we had a swing. Now...

I'm in an apartment. There's someone on all but one side, I have to take them into consideration with my music, I have a balcony with a small rail, no more room for a swing.

These may seem like little things. They probably are. But to me - who blares music at every opportunity, who sits on front porches, who swings - and writes. Music is one of the most important things in my writing method. Certain songs make me think of certain stories, or certain times at a certain place. Times and places I thought would always be there.

Maybe I've just got hardcore seperation anxiety. This is, most likely, true. I hate being seperated from things I love - people, things, places. It tears me up inside. And now I'm leaving what's been my home for eleven years. There are memories in that place that only songs can bring back, maybe a few smells. And when these songs come up in iTunes, I almost want to cry. I'm leaving home, and I'll miss it greatly.

Sure, the apartment will eventually become home, but when you've lived somewhere for the majority of your life, it's hard to replace it. There have been many great (and many not-so-great) memories in that place. I lived in two places prior to The House - but none of those memories from either of those places are as strong as the ones I've gathered these past eleven years.

I'm leaving home...for home.




[What a lame, hokey ending.]

I Want A Weekend.

I'm tired of carrying boxes.
I'm tired of not having anything in my room.
I'm tired of driving back and forth.
I'm tired of moving.
I'm tired.

Leave me alone.

An Extremely Short Treatise on PotO

As in Phantom of the Opera.

I hate Christine. There, it's out. At first, sure, she's all well and good...but then, after seeing the Phantom's face, she's all superficial and "Ew, he's ugly! Bleah!" Well, ok, so he was a tad harsh and pissed off, but who wouldn't be if someone you loved saw your true appearance and hated you for it? She just bugs the shit out of me.

In case you couldn't tell, the Phantom is my favourite character. Even with his mildly bad temper (heh) he's got good reason for it. Most people don't. (Well done Monsieur Leroux.) I won't go too deeply into why, but I love him.

And then...there's the poorest bastard of the lot. Raoul. All he does is go after the woman he loves, and still gets the shit end of the stick. In my humble opinion, he's the best character. Not my favourite, but a good man.

I told you it was short.

Moving

is a bitch.

That is all.