It’s one in the morning.
I’m sitting in a leather chair that I bought years ago. These days it is really too difficult for me to get in and out of, what with my decaying knees. I’m sleeping in it too. Most of my possessions have been carted away, far away, by the movers. The previous few weeks have been spent packing up the things that I formerly found precious. I say ‘formerly’ because in the packing I came to hate most of them. No longer representations of beauty, they because physical burdens, at a time when I am old and burdens weigh cruelly upon me.
Around me in my apartment are a few things left, some which I will pack into the car tomorrow. Most are now junk to me. But the junk is scattered throughout the apartment, and I lack the strength to gather them together for the junk haulers that will come in two days time (a few friends said they’d help me clean up, but they have not realized the amount of crap I have, nor the effort, and I have abused their kindness enough in the past few days). Then the maid the day after to clean this place I have survived in for fifteen years.
The urge to simply get in the car and GO is almost overwhelming. I’ve been a responsible adult for so long. Or, as I say sometimes, I’ve really been 12 years old for 40 years now, and I’ve been faking adulthood as best I can. I am tired. My knees scream. My hands ache, even as I type this. My back twists even as I sit. My possessions have become an anchor, dragging me down. I don’t want to put things in my car. I don’t want to gather together the junk. I don’t want to be disabled. I don’t want to be awake at one in the morning in a place that is no longer where I lived, but now only where I collected my mail once upon a time.
I am tired. I am tired. I am tired. And in a few days time, I will try to drive 1,200 miles across a country that I long ago stopped recognizing at the place I grew up in. To get back to where I grew up, to start a completely different phase of my life. I honestly don’t know if I’ll make it.
A supposedly grown man sitting alone in the tatters and detritus of his prior existence, weeping from exhaustion, is a truly sad thing, I suppose. I am that sad thing.
I’ll post again if I make it.
I don’t know why I wrote this. So tired.