fountains and mountains of ink

i'm taking a moment to write this from the middle of my bed, where i am wearing jeans that are two sizes too big and sitting on top of the polka-dotted tulle from a red prom dress crumpled among my bedsheets. i'm moving next weekend and i have taken on the dreary task of disassembling all of my shit to discard what i don't need or want and pack up what currently sits out. honestly, i've been trying to do this for the past few days, but instead it's amounted to going for walks, watching netflix, and checking my horoscope.

confession: when i feel misplaced, i find myself regularly clicking to find my astrological guidance or perusing sites that encourage hopeful anonymity (missed connections on craigslist, postsecret). while many people turn to god, i turn to pseudoscience and candidates voted "most likely to be socially awkward and/or die alone" to look for the answers to my questions, or a secret message that will say to me, "everything is ok!" and convince me that things are much more beautiful than they seem in the present moment. embarrassing and futile, but a habit i can't seem to break.

with every move, i've been determined to get rid of a bunch of the things i have lugged around for the past fifty or so (perhaps slightly hyperbolic, but not really) moves. brutal sentimentality has made it impossible to part with mementos, keepsakes, and anything that is a reminder of fondness. i can find affection for plain, unremarkable rock that was collected from the right beach, at the right time, with the right person. being that i don't want to end up on an episode of hoarders, i've done my best to keep my packrat tendencies in check, and what better way to do it than right before moving? leave it all behind; start fresh.

although the nostalgia i find in an old rusty paperclip from the bottom of a plastic box is certainly a heartbreaker, what kills me is the sketchbooks and the photo assignments with encouraging words and the paperwork with my father's name scribbled across it. i found an envelope from some health insurance paperwork he sent me in 2007 and convincing myself to throw it away requires a ten minute pep talk while staring down the envelope, seeing who will blink first.

the worst is the encouragement, though. however much potential i had at one time (according to the stacks of drawings and paintings and photographs that have the words of mentors written across them with the kind of language that makes for a great daily mantra) means very little now. i used to hope i would die young so that this potential would be all that was left; there's nothing more beautiful than what could have been, rather than the disappointment it turned out to be.

this is an ugly feeling and it's all tied together, the abandonment of photography and music and the lack of confidence to re-learn what, at one time, seemed to come so easy and my father's death and the endless parade of shitty jobs and academic failures. i feel my throat tighten when i think about it. so i am taking a break to take a breath, step outside, let the tears come if they're coming, and that's all i can do. the three year mark of his death comes after the first week of march, and sometimes i still have to remember to be gentle with myself. the pain may have subsided, but the broken parts still swell sometimes.

although generally things are good, i still feel like i'm in the aftermath of this (and without health insurance plus having my hours at work dropped drastically, there's little to no help to be had). i've said it before and i'll say it again: i'd trade the uncertainty of youth for lines on my face any day. i know that this is wasted on me and i should appreciate what i have while it's here, but sometimes i wish i could just fast forward to a time when things will make more sense. when all the work i'm doing now will actually lead somewhere, and when that feeling of forever spinning my wheels without moving even an inch forward will dissipate.

goddamnit, i hate moving.