I'm in the middle of packing my things because I'll be leaving for Malaysia this Thursday. This task, already an annoying nuisance for a person who's a perfect antithesis of order and organization, has graduated from just being difficult and intimidating to being more and more depressing. This is because I'll also be moving to another building next year.
My family isn't the nomadic lot. I've been living under the same roof for most of my life. I've seen and said goodbye to friends who had to change school because their family had to relocate. I don't know how people do it with such relative casualness. Me I'd be slipping into a huge depression episode and be all mopey for at least a month and would be fighting the moving decision every step of the way, like a stray cat about to be given a cold bath.
Moving has such a dreadful final ring to it, no matter how excited you feel about your new place. I am totally looking forward to moving in with my friends next year, but the studio apartment I'm writing this from right now has also seen me writing a lot of other pieces, when I just couldn't sleep at night and the warm glow from the monitor screen seems to be the only solace. It has seen me getting through some of the crazier years of my life. This probably sounds a bit silly, but as I take off my things from my desk, my once haphazardous floor, my cupboard, I feel like I'm leaving a loyal friend.
This is probably going to be the last entry written in Melbourne this year. I'll see you guys in KL in three days!!!