it's strange...

[ktron]

sitting here in my only-mildly-cozy yet awfully familiar apartment... and thinking, "this time next week, i won't live here anymore." maybe i'll be here to clean, but it won't be mine. my desk won't be in this corner, the bookshelf not in that one... no job to dread, no nine o'clock phone calls or karaoke nights to anticipate... no trying to trick the faucet into enough hot water to make a decent bath, no drowning out the carpet's mild moldy smell with candles and incense, no trips to the laundromat in the middle of the night.

in a way, i'm watching a piece of myself disintegrate. flaked off, scorned, but i always end up mourning in the end... just a tinge of nostalgia, not a true desire to paste myself back together.

why does a week seem so many magnitudes smaller than two?

i should start packing.