Moving On and Moving Out

Moving On and Moving Out


I was just informed by my landlady that they could no longer renew my lease on my place. I still have a month left paid in advance, and it seems that would be all that I would ever have until I find myself another suitable place to spend my lonely nights. It’s not that bad actually, nor is it that good either.

It’s not the best place I have lived in. But for the past few months, that little shack has served as my empire. Inside I ruled with impunity. No one to tell me where to put things or when to tidy up, that is until I berate myself for letting my laziness get the hold of me and I would find myself sneezing amidst all the dust laced around, though I have to admit a certain kinship with the house spiders who have claimed their own parts of the house. I don’t mind them, i let them be, a live and let live relationship between us. But all of this would soon be over.

And yet I cannot help but be reminded of the things about this certain house. Of the dreams that were born there, of the love that it was a witness to. There is something about house that makes us chained to it. Like I am, to this certain house that in the course of time, would belong to someone else.

So much like the recent love that I lost. Call me masochistic, but admittedly there is this thought that her kisses, her touches, her love that use to be mine would belong to someone else. Just like how the poem of my long dead father said so. Chained, that is the word, because there is no denying that what we had, and what we lost, will always be tied up to this spot, no matter if the structure goes away.

When I sat on the bamboo sofa that has also served as my bed, I cannot help but be reminded of the times we shared this cramped space together. I remember how she held me close, close to her breast, like a lost child finally welcomed home. Of how she spent moments watching me sleep, or listening to my snores. I cannot help but remember how, mushy as this may be, the two of us locked upon each other’s eyes, trading smiles, exchanging embraces.

It must have been Ellison who said that “romantic angst only last for 12 minutes, the rest is self indulgence.” Perhaps so. And yet I cannot help but think that for the remaining days of the month that I would stay here, I would be constantly haunted by the ghost of our memories, everyday getting more vivid that I could taste and hear and smell the love that was once living here. And more maddening, that I am also sure.

With how recent events have unfolded in my life, I cannot help but wonder if the wheels of the world have began their turn just a few meters from me and I am caught in it. As if her absence in my life is not enough, I would have to move on with my own, and move out of sanctuary.

Perhaps, for some reason, leaving this place would be a good thing. The images would not be so vivid, and though they would always be inside my head, they would not haunt me like they did earlier this morning. And in the process I would applying and actually doing something I have known right from the start but loathe to do when it happens, and that is the biting reality of letting go. Easy to say to one’s self, and yet doing it, every moment doing it is another story that is not really that happy to be told.

Its still gonna be something like four weeks before I say goodbye to my place. And yet I know that wherever I may be, I would always be with this place.

Or better put, this place would always be with me.