I’ve been moving all my life, and not in the metaphorical can’t stay still sense of the word, or even in the literal can’t stay still sense of the word, but in the other literal changing of domicile sense of the word. My senior thesis was going to be focused on how I’ve moved so much throughout my life, but I moved before I got a chance to finish it.
You’d think I’d be an expert at this by now. I think I took it for granted. Just because I’ve moved all over and often doesn’t make it any less traumatic. Maybe it makes it moreso traumatic, like a war victim witnessing one too many tragedies until finally they’re a bundle of nerves set off by the slightest disturbance. I keep running but is it the running that I’m running from?
I moved last week, July the 1st. I’m still living out of boxes but thanks to the kindness and vehicles of friends at least I have furniture now. They say that’s okay, not unpacking right away, that everyone takes their time unpacking, but truthfully I don’t even have that many things to begin with. Eventually I’ll have to unpack it all because otherwise I just don’t have anything.
I think part of me is hesitant to unpack, just in case. Just in case things don’t work out at the new apartment, I’ll be all packed up and ready for the next move. It’s like refusing to take your coat off because you only stopped in for a minute, you’ll be running right back out soon. If you don’t get too comfortable it’s that much easier when you have to leave.
My new apartment is nice. It reminds me of my first studio when I moved away to college, only twice as expensive, and I can’t help but think how nice of a place I could afford if I moved back to Cincinnati. I live alone now, and much as I complained about my roommates before, I find myself now missing the presence of another person. As little as I watched television before, now I’m missing free cable. It’s what I’ve done all my life, always looking back at what I’m missing, always looking back at what I’ve run away from and wondering why I ever chose to run.