Packing

I started packing my clothes up. In my luggage. And I am having a very strong reaction to...this. My aunt offered to run a garage sale by herself while I am at work on Thursday, and I got really defensive. I mean, who wants to sell their stuff, the stuff that they have kept around for years and years. The stuff that has been catalogued in the back of my mind. The stuff that has been saved a special place for "later". Seeing the tiny space that I have been restricted to finagling my life into has made me want to crawl into a warm American apple pie and play baseball while setting off fireworks. Well, really, I just want someone to hold my hand for me. Someone else to tell me what should go into my luggage and what I can leave behind. Someone else to take the responsibility and the feelings of getting rid of my beloved objects. Someone else to take all the discomfort and scariness of moving to Russia until the homesickness and disorientation have been trudged through.

Though, thinking about it now, imagining waking up tomorrow in the middle of my new Russian life would be a horror. Imagine it-I would wake up in a strange bed, in a strange room, with strange sounds only to continue along my surreal day fumbling and dumbstruck. No, we need this slow compression of days in order to truly feel the rush of change and to overcome it. Otherwise, healing decompression would be replaced by the sharp jab of discontinuity. So, bring it on time, you cold, unyielding bastard!