I’ve spent the past two weeks packing and folding in the most approximate way and sitting on suitcases to close them and unpacking and unfolding and dusting off things I’ve been collecting for the past few years and then looked at all I had and all it was were a couple heavy boxes filled with all I consider mine, all that’s necessary.
I’ve been thinking lately that it’s curious how I keep buying white t-shirts, patterned socks and baggy jeans, watering my collection of things that won’t fit in my backpack when I’ll leave again but still feel like I need them, like they’re medicine for those flat days when nothing happens or when things are too much to take in and you need to make a breach. I’ve been thinking that we don’t need much at all but that it’s fun to redecorate, little difference if we’re talking about cutting your binge, starting a fire with old books or buying a goldfish, a jumper and a pair of uncomfortable shoes for special occasions like funerals and weddings.
All I need can be packed in few heavy boxes, then the room is empty again and looks like nobody spent his days and thought his thoughts and dreamt his nights there, breathing in and out, sticking posters and hanging photos on the walls to make them look less naked. But when all is packed, when the last day of rent paid and you’re late for the bus, all seems new and hides your footprints. It’s a sweet pain to know that no matter where you’re staying, where you feet lead you to and your head lays on, it all can be fickle if you want it to be – like the sweetness you find in the bitterness of lemon after that sip of tequila. So stop worrying about where you’re heading next, who you’ll share the blanket with or if you should or not cut your hair. There are weeks or minutes you can’t have it all under your control, the pace of your days or the length of your legs. But you can adjust, suck it up and sweat your ass off until you find your balance – or not, and keep on stumbling and adding bruises to the list like I do, but that’s another story.
It all can be fickle if you want it to be, so pack your favorite t-shirt, tie your shoes and get out there. We all miss our mom’s pasta, but that’s the price to pay if you ever want to find your path – stumbling maybe, but still find it.
PS I do have a thing for embarrassing socks, and a collection of white t-shirts and bruises and keep on walking into things and buying clothes of the wrong size and sometimes have no clue where I’m heading especially when it comes to reading the maps, but I know it won’t be boring. And that’s all that matters, because when the alarm goes off and the bunch of things I’m supposed to get done hits my forehead, well, it’s good to have something to clutch to.