Moving always stresses me out— I think it’s the idea of moving from one place to another, putting my life into boxes of various sizes, and moving those boxes into a whole new air.
Fitting my life into suitcases, boxes, plastic containers, and duffle bags make me feel small— They seem to be defining me. I also feel nostalgic because I think of how things used to be in places but not anymore.
If I squeeze my entire life into boxes, they will be too heavy to carry. Still, I have a feeling that those which cannot be boxed are subject to change. The things in boxes, clothes, books, hairdryers and detergent, for instance, are immutable unless I throw them away or replace them. There are also other things, some of which I deeply cherish, that I can’t preserve in a box: my playlist, my perception of the world, my feelings, etc. Those are things that I wish would never change but always do.
Moving reminds me of the mobility of time and objects, the power of the mobility in this world, and how powerless I am in the face of these movements. The small changes of the tangible things constitute significant yet intangible changes in my life. The movement of those boxes from one place to another is me saying goodbye to one stage of my life and entering another.
Moving is saying goodbye and hello at the same time— and I ‘m good at neither of them.