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| Don't tell me goodbye, Capisce? |
I'm leaving.
It sucks.
I've had a whale of a time here with my little family, and now I'm sitting alone in the guest room, staring at Safari with what can only be described as writer's block.
Or perhaps writer's laziness.
I honestly can't tell.
The funny thing is, I don't even feel like writing.
Yet my hands refuse to leave the keyboard.
Consider this a stream of consciousness. My brain has once again decided to go feral.
I suppose it's time to return to the daily grind.
The strange thing about leaving your parents' house isn't the distance. It's how quickly your previous life begins to feel like somebody else's routine.
I'll see my wonderfully unhinged flatmates again, and I'm looking forward to that. Still, the mood changes. Not because one life is better than the other, but because human beings have an almost comedic inability to adapt to whatever they currently have.
What I miss there is independence.
And Triangle. Our own little Central Perk. The coffee isn't even the best in town. In fact, several cafés make considerably better lattes. Triangle simply has... jurisdiction.
Every friendship seems to acquire one place where conversations naturally migrate and chairs remember your posture better than you do. I also miss my nocturnal showers. Three in the morning. Everyone else is asleep. The pipes creak like they're trying not to wake the building. For five minutes the world feels politely postponed.
Oddly enough, I think I'll miss the smell of our apartment stairwell too. Not because it smells particularly pleasant. It doesn't. But every building eventually develops an aroma that quietly announces, you're home. It's remarkable what the brain decides to archive.
I'll miss some classmates.
Some professors too.
But more than anyone, I'll miss the conversations.
Those wonderfully unnecessary intellectual confabulations that begin with someone saying, "I've been thinking..." and somehow end at four in the morning with posthumanism, metaphysics, and an argument over whether Frankenstein's monster deserved tenure.
The later it gets, the better the conversation becomes.
Perhaps exhaustion is philosophy's secret ingredient.
Our greatest academic achievements usually occurred the night before deadlines.
We'd postpone an assignment until the very last moment, spend six hours pretending to work, two hours actually working, and somehow convince ourselves the panic was part of the methodology.
Sleep became optional.
Dignity soon followed.
Before class we'd perform what can only be described as a ritual.
Dance around the apartment like Neanderthals attempting contemporary choreography.
Make inexplicable Bonobo noises.
Shout "Ooga Ooga!" at precisely 7:45 a.m.
Then walk into class as though nothing had happened.
Civilisation is a remarkably thin veneer.
Dear Family,
I know goodbyes are supposed to be graceful.
I hate them.
Profusely.
I am embarrassingly delicate when it comes to leaving people I love. Tears are permanently waiting backstage, prepared to burst onto the scene over the slightest emotional inconvenience.
So take it easy on me.
I'll be back before nostalgia has enough time to exaggerate the memories.
Arrivederci.
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