If you walked into my flat, you would have no idea that I am leaving the country on Tuesday (that’s six days). No clue. My clothes are scattered over the floor, my books jostle for space on my shelves, and who knows what’s lurking under the bed or behind the couch or in the garage. Everything remains as it’s always been. Even my travelling pack is hidden away in my flatmate’s wardrobe, nowhere near the rest of my belongings. Am I mad? Am I in denial? Is this trip just a figment of my imagination?
When people find out that I’m leaving they’re always super surprised. I guess they think I’m holding my cards close to my chest, that I’m freaking out about my trip in shrouded silence. The reality? In the face of a trip to the other side of the world with no end in sight, I’m more worried about finding a container for my soap than the trip itself. I don’t know if this is a good or bad thing. Am I in for a huge shock and period of mourning once I leave? Or will I take it all in my stride in a cool, somewhat detached way?
I am excited… but am I really? I guess it’s just that this trip has been a plan of mine for so many countless years, so now that it’s finally happening it just doesn’t seem like a huge deal.
Anyway, maybe tonight I’ll start boxing my stuff… or tomorrow.