kissing walls

We have to get boxes.
I'm subconsciously avoiding anything that has to do with moving to the new apartment. Not because I don't want to, but because it's difficult to remove myself from the attic that saved my sanity. It gave my thoughts a warm roof, and my body a solitary bath tub to inspect my toes under the angular light prying through the window. The attic, carefully organized inside its many corners, witnessed loves and lovers --
some of whom I've forgotten, and it never judged me.

I've always been a sucker for spaces. Before we moved out of our first house (a two-story gem with a pond in the garden and rooms filled with memories), I spent days secretly kissing each and every wall. My 8-year-old self thought that maybe those kisses would help ease the house's pain of getting demolished.

But hell, I have to move on. I'm getting better at it year after year. Sometimes it scares me. But the world was made to change, to evolve, destroy, merge, divorce. As Dexter said, maybe we survive better in pairs. And maybe my attic was over-rated.

[moving revelations: n˚ 1]