Moving, is a coming to terms with the past.
A gathering of things filled with memories,
a rediscovery of lost feelings, thoughts, images woven into the trivials
the dust which accompanies the passing days
some photographs to sort through
picking up these scattered remnants of the self
lying ordinarily in the landscape of the familiar
a place of rest, to find the self sometimes fuzzy in the hectic world
an old shirt, the same sofa you sat on as a child
the past ten years, an invisible change uncaptured
escaped like the changing of the being
a shadow.
Putting these things into suitcases,
packing them into boxes
as if to contain the pasing years, the shifiting self
giving up some parts deemed no longer important
like chucking piles of lecutre notes as unloading of burdens of a version of you
no longer the student, a recognition of an official end
a kind of resolution, determination
to choose between memories, and looking ahead to the future
where an empty house awaits new memories to be spinned on
layers on layers
like the dust and cobwebs in some hidden corner of the house
white walls, impersonal
the new view from the windows
waiting for a new self to inhabit
an indecision between the goodbye and the hello
the in-between of the still attached strings of the past and the cutting of ties to face a future
losing a place to hide from the moving time the changing life
a bold step into the exposed place
a recreation of the self
to give up and to welcome
To find that anchor, as you leave the old place behind
in a van, in a taxi, on a plane.