I feel like we are preparing to become nomads. One by one, all of the items that made our apartment a home are disappearing before our eyes and always for a price that won’t fill the hole in our hearts. Preparing the big move is taking a toll on us. We are operating on autopilot and slowly losing the sense of direction, almost losing touch with reality. It is not like we are highly materialistic people, but our belongings and our space keep us grounded, structured and organized. And while I used to, forgive the word, shit on structure, I now realize it brings me immense peace.
I cannot say I am unhappy either. I am just tired, yet restless. You may think that moving overseas is comparable to moving houses but it’s not. When you are moving overseas, nearly all has to go. So, it is time to decide what your life basics are and get rid of the rest. This is when it gets hard, because you can’t avoid to see the connection with the intangible portion of your life. I need to find my life basics, my essentials, my core properties, my destiny and the key. But, of course, I first gotta clean my closet.
The stress is only paralleled by the emotional drainage.
The malaise started when I sold my desk and packed my planner. I should have foreseen this. It was the end of our existence here. Since then, I’ve been navigating the house confused, like a ghost. Everyday feels like the aftermath of a big battle, like we are dead but keep walking, or just like a very dull Sunday at a stranger’s apartment. When will we have a home again?
Tensions rise and the more you work, the more you sort, the more there is. Like those lentils your mum warned you about. Like that handbag you can’t reach the bottom of. Tunnel vision.
I want to write but the words don’t come out. I am tired. My life is between brackets. The whole year’s a breeze, a cloud of excitement. But this month? This packing, working and sorting month? It’s a bracket. It’s setting a plastic stick on fire and pulling both sides in opposite directions. It’s not breaking, it’s just expanding where it should not. It’s a mile of quicksand right before the shore.
I am too tired to fear, and too tired to feel. I am already a nomad.
Signed: Ingrid, after cleaning up her closet and giving up on paper books.