I woke up in the morning with my head full of thoughts. My fingers were counting the hours I had spent since I touched down: 48 hours. It feels like forever. The sense of hopelessness started to creep at the back of my head, I bolted upright and I threw my duvet off the bed. Instinctively, I searched for Devotchka's How It Ends on my iPod and I played it out loud.
What a way to kick off my morning with a remnant of the past.
I looked around me and I was stung with a devastation. The room is empty. The bed by the window is something I recognized from 10 years ago, the two cupboards sat side by side, and they were filled to the brink with clothes useless to me now, and the full-length mirror did nothing to reflect my diminishing optimism. I searched for my books - the wall of my being, the pillar of my strength - they are in boxes somewhere, still buried with my past. My suitcases sat limply at the corner of the room, next to my bursting parcel and my guitar.
Given the state of my room, people can only conclude whether I've just moved in or I'm ready to move out. Honestly speaking, I prefer the latter.
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