The process has begun. The moving process. I am at the purging and packing stage. In other words, the nostalgia stage.
I found a journal with the strangest mix of love letters, melodrama and scribble dribble ever. It was strange to read the words and believe that I was the author. Still, I could not part with it. After reading a few pages I packed it in a box with random decorations and books.
Now, I can’t stop thinking about that stupid journal. I can’t stop thinking about how that ridiculous object is really nothing more than paper bound by cardboard, but I make it into something symbolic and valuable by keeping it.
This journal is exactly a metaphor for all of the crap I carry inside of me.
Uh oh. I feel like I just might say something serious. Be warned! Hopefully the autocorrect feature on my phone will humorously change a few words around.
Back to the metaphor. I, especially at night, right as I am falling asleep, remember all of the dumb shit I’ve ever done in my life. Major events, embarrassing moments, people and places that should be forgotten, all of it returns and sits on my chest. It watches me while I try to doze off.
And I’m so over it.
I don’t want to live the rest of my life apologizing or explaining myself. I don’t think I have to prove that I’m a better person or that I’m different or have changed. I can’t spend my life walking wounded, even if a few believe I deserve to.
So, like the journal, I’m tossing out the guilt and the worrying and the hand-wringing. Yes, I’ve made some poor choices, but I have to leave it all behind.
I need to make room.
I am still a comprehensive collection of imperfection, with many more mistakes to make.