The big day is nearly here. Tomorrow I am leaving Bristol.
Although the last couple of months have felt like forever, moving has at the same time crept up on me and I suddenly feel like I have an awful lot to do and not enough time to do it in. I have spent the last half an hour running up and down the stairs with boxes and bags, hoping to clear my mind of the worry and the doubt, but still it lingers.
Moving under any circumstances I know is hard. You spend so long building up a life around you, collecting stuff, surrounding yourself with things, and then suddenly there it is, just a stack of boxes. You literally have to pick up every single thing you own, see it, put it in a box, take it out again. You unpack, try to recreate what was there before, or maybe something different, but what does any of it even mean?
These things of course are more than just things – they represent interests, hobbies, passions and shared memories, which is why I suppose that having to look at every single one of them, when so many of the memories are no longer shared, is so sad.
Everyone keeps telling me that a fresh start is a good thing, that once we are in a new house everything will feel better, and I know that’s true, that feelings do fade, but I’m just not convinced I want them to.