Thursday

There's something about boxes that always makes me sad. It seems like I've moved almost every eight months during the last four years, but the process has yet to seem less daunting. I'm not sure if it's the physical act: the box cuts, the lifting of furniture, the dividing of the kitchenware; or if it's the task of metaphorically putting your entire self into the back of a truck, having only to de-rumple it in a new place. 

It's always easier to pack than it is to make yourself at home. There is something about a well-worn room that screams, "I AM COMFORTABLE HERE," whereas it takes me months to put everything in it's perfect spot in each new space. I mull over it for ages – photo there, pencils here, no the other way around – until it aligns with my perfectly balanced mental picture of bedroom harmony. 

Here's to coming back out of my box unrumpled.