Three Days & Counting

I don't want to move. I don't want to move. I don't want to move.

It's my new mantra. It's the safeguard against change and heavy boxes and dollies and box trucks and having to haul things I know I shouldn't even be attempting to haul up and down stairs. It's the safeguard against exhaustion and the fear of finding out maybe I don't like the new place so well after all. It's the mantra of the slightly panicked and the rising anxiety. It's the mental equivalent of dragging my feet, subverting the inevitable, prying my cold, dead fingers off the door frame.

And yet, there's Jb, and a friend I owe far too much, and this lease, and a new life that I should be ecstatic over, because no one likes an opportunity to start over better than I do. But damned if I'm not getting older, and if the luster of a new life doesn't sparkle quite as sweet. It starts out promising enough, but then, the tarnish starts to show. It creeps up like a stain, 'til what was brand new is now disconcertingly the same, and all the believed-in promises of this or that are empty. All resolutions glint, then die, like far off stars you never could touch.

Moving. I hate it.