leaning on an empty wall

I'm sitting next to my bike and a box full of toxic cleaning chemicals. I'm not sure what to do with all of the chemicals. I don't really clean chemically anymore, but that is beside the point.

Exhaustion has set in. Emotional, spiritual, physical exhaustion. Moving is draining. Saying goodbye is wrenching. The unknown is frightening.

I've been repeating clich├ęd mantras: it's the people not the place; it's not "goodbye", it's" see you soon"; moving on, moving up; forgiveness means forgetness. (I might have made up that last one.) They get me through the moments when I'm leaning against an empty wall surrounded by the strange physical shards of the last few years, mourning what I'm losing.

I've loved my apartment, my roommates, my life in this space and time. Sure, I've complained my fair share. Whined, moaned, and curled into a crying ball a few times. But mainly, when I think about the last two years, I turn into a sentimental schmuck.

It isn't unfounded sentimentality. I have friends who take on friendship like a calling from above. They've painted my walls; they've Tetris-ed my furniture into their cars; they've sat on my floor with me when they knew I was sad. They teach me that #12334 is just a place, that friendship is more portable than my bike and a box of cleaning chemicals.

Today I'm leaning on an empty wall. Brimmed with tears of unreadiness and utmost joy. Completely grateful, yet overwhelmed with fear.

Tomorrow a new hope, a new memory will come alive, a new wall will be filled.

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