Two simple innocuous words. Do not believe their deceit. The reality is the tiresome packing of clothes, the boring sifting through worldy possessions, the mucky dirt of the past - even grubbier than the actual cobwebs and dust that have accumulated en mass over the passing years. Dust is like my fan base, a loyal crowd of particles that stalk my airspace.
Oh what a laborious, woebegone task. Few things are more soul destroying than spending hours packing bags, only for the flimsy plastic to rip as soon as you pick them up; the cheap material looking like someone squished into clothes two sizes too small, before stretching, splitting and vomiting up the entire contents.
Worst of all, the memory jogs of old, and always with the most bizarre object; a yellowing christmas card from Nan, her scrawly, spidery handwriting that now just symbolises a huge gaping hole in myself; a ticket to the Empire State Building in 2001, a heart-wrenching time when anything still seemed possible against a backdrop of smooching couples; a well-chewed book, that is like looking into a mirror that instead of a reflection, reveals every single mistake I have ever made.
Even worse still - the plethora of receipts. The guilt of flittered away pennies; papered judge & jury of waste. What was I doing buying a flumklpe from Ikea? What actually IS a flumklpe? How could I spend so much money in B&Q? I don't even like DIY. And did I really need 12 packs of ice lollies in one week...
Moving out. Moving on. And yet it is almost more like moving backwards.