saturday morning...

...finds me sitting amidst a heap of boxes that swallowed my room. Literally and figuratively: I can't look around without seeing a stack of brown cardboard boxes in a corner with things like "Straight Cut French Fried Potatoes" written on the side. Also, these boxes are swallowing my room, piece by piece: things to go and things to stay are slowly but surely filling them. So this is moving. In the past two years, excepting when I moved here from home, moving meant re-shoving all my clothes into my backpack and taking a shower. This is what you get when you get yourself attached to a place, thinks the roving side of me, a small bit of heartbreak when you have to leave.

Then rational me wakes up and brings roving me to its senses. "Yeah, but," she says, "life is change. You know that. Don't be silly. And if you didn't feel sad, then you wouldn't truly be alive!"

Roving me tends to agree.

It's a good thing my psyche gets along, because I still have a load of packing to do.