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.]