mothwing | Packing up my life in boxes...

I hate moving.

I hate moving away from here.

I hate moving because it always feels as though I leave more behind than the destination where I'm headed will give me back. How much worse is it going to be when I move away from here?

I have been truly happy here. Truly, truly happy. I have hated being here, I have hated living in this flat, at times, even hated living with Crocky and not being alone. It was not perfect. And yet, there was a reason to get up every morning.
There are just no words to describe it. It would end up in overly dramatic reveries if I tried. And even more sappiness. It was not perdect, but it was happiness more intense than anything I have felt before.

I am trying to kid myself into believing things will be just as well when I get back home, but home is no longer home and I have no idea what it will be like when I move back into the house which was my home for most of my life. I have missed the people, but I have not missed the city. I love Hamburg, but not because of what it is and because of all the things which make it the greatest city, but merely due to the fact that it was the first city I ever lived in and the only city I ever wanted to live in. Still, it has always been just a place.

Glasgow is home.

And now?

The life of a year, three boxes. To cut the weight, I had to part with a lot of my notes, even more than I already had thrown away. Which was not good, because I am a nostalgic sissy. I cried when I threw away my notes from Psychology. I know that should I ever revise the stuff we have been doing I am far more likely to read the book than the notes, however concise and precise they may be. I cried when I threw away my Russian stuff and cursed myself for being so nostalgic about a class. I have kept Literature because it may come in handy, the same goes for Language. It might be useful. The books are the biggest problem, they are the reason why there are three boxes, otherwise there would be only one and my clothes would go in my suitcase and not join the books in the boxes. One box. One year. And a huge pile of paper which will end up in the bin.
I don't want to go back. I don't want to leave, ever. I want to stay buried in that flat in the Lowlands in Glasgow and hear, wherever I go, this language washing over me, melodious and soothing like rain.

My mother called yesterday and said in that slightly sarcastic, slightly sympathetic voice that in the remainder of the time here I could "Go round and say goodbye to everything". Yes, I will do that.

Enough moping now. Crocky is planning our Highland tour and the library is closing in twenty minutes, as the voice from the speakers tell me.