Leaving and Home

I am home. You know, it's a strange thing, to come back to a place that you know so well after being gone for a while. Some things remain the same, but others don't. Little things are moved, replaced, or forgotten. My room is crowded with too much junk. I'm trying to fit an entire apartment into my one little room. It's at times like these that I wish I was able to be one of those people who seems to have only a very few belongings. I am sick of all this stuff. I don't really need it. Except for the art supplies. I do need those!

Being an artist also means that you are a collector. You collect other people's art, and you save everything you've ever made, because you never know who might want to buy it from you. You also collect scraps of things that are inspirations. Leaves, moss, postcards, textured paper, little bottles, ribbons, plastic army men...

I suppose I should give an overview of the past few days, just to write it down and get it out of my head. This past week is very blurry. I'm trying to remember everything, but I have this funny habit of blocking out stressful or traumatic events. I don't remember much of middle school at all! Thank God! I said goodbye to many dear friends, and I don't know what will happen to them while I'm gone. I miss them, and I want to be the best friend I can be, but the distance makes everything harder. I'm going to miss Amanda and Megan most of all, Compline, walks to the river, Molly's, Gallery Espresso, and that hoity toity antique store on Bull Street.

(a side note on the antique store: it had a row of windows that covered most of the Bull St. side of the building. I would always check myself out in those windows, to see how I walked. Watching yourself walk is a strange thing. Did I walk with flare and elegance, or did I shuffle along like a burned out college student? I could get pretty melodramatic watching myself, pretending I was some tragic heroine destined for greatness. I only looked like a shabby art student. I also always hoped that the employees inside the store got the impression that I was looking at the antiques in the windows and not at my vain self).

Oh, yeah, back to the main point: Every time I live somewhere new, I seem to forget that I will eventually be leaving. It hurts. You have to gouge out a small part of yourself and leave it behind you when you are done with a place. Call it what you will, the ghost, the effect, the memory of you and your time in a place fades but never vanishes. How can something fill you up and leave you empty at the same time? That is what it's like to leave.