To Home?

Today, I am moving. I also moved last week. And I think the week before, too. It never seems to end and I’m not entirely sure I didn’t die a little while ago, go to the place downstairs, and end up with a Sisyphus sort of dealio. But instead of pushing a boulder up a hill for eternity, I get to move for eternity.

I am now waiting for a moving man. I have never met this person, but he and I will pack the contents of my flat into his van (which better translate to ‘big fucking truck’) and then we will bring it to my new flat. Each time I move I implore the gods with a repetitive ohm, which, while less than Zen to be sure, does grasp the root of my present state of mind.

“How the f*** do I have so much s***!?”

I say that about 300 times about 5 times a day. By the end of my entreaty, I usually and miraculously find myself in a pub being served by a waitress with a concerned look on her face and a tray full of drinks that happen to be for only me. The move isn’t only distressing because of its physical acts, but rather for the psychological impact it’s having on my – evidently – fragile psyche.

I am a routine fool. I get up early, I take my vitamins, I drink my water, I push a button on the coffee maker, which was already filled and set the night before. I sit in my chair and I do my work. Now, owing to the disruption in my schedule, I am up in the air, unmoored by my routine and my work. Until now, I did not realize how badly I could fall into depression without that routine.

I am jealous of everyone. Men, women, especially children, who don’t have to worry about doing anything at all. If their parents move, they probably don’t have to do too much to help them out. Oh, to live a life of no worry. A woman I was walking behind yesterday abruptly stopped, dug through her bag of recent shopping and removed a bottle of white wine. She then sat down and unscrewed the bottle and drank a big pull from it. I gaped with envy. This was not the act of a person who didn’t have a place to go back to. This was the act of a woman who was going to a well-established home and going to sleep. I could have cried.

Sometimes nowadays I lie awake at dream about padded walls and high dosages of mood elevators. Oh, the utter joy. Especially if some guys were to just, you know, move my stuff into my place while I was in there. This thought keeps me warm.

Now it’s time to bring things – once again – down some steps so that I can bring them somewhere and then bring them up some other steps. I wonder what waitress I will awaken to this afternoon. I wonder what will be on her tray of goodies.

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