I moved, down the country, to a new geographic block of states.
The vegetation is different down here, the squirrels are smaller, none of these people have heard my stories three thousand times yet. Of course, my stories contain no relevance here, there are no architectural mnemonics here to trigger the subconscious into the mental fugue that can only be escaped by telling the story.
And this all happened almost three weeks ago, and still. I don't feel it. Instead I think about homes and houses, I think about selves and stories, I think about timelines interrupted, Derek Parfit might be on to something.
What was more meaningful was two days ago, when the remainder of Hypatia's Household packed up their shit into cars and trucks, turned in the keys and the internet box and rolled their separate directions off into some mythical sunset.
My own leaving was subsumed into the entrance into a life clearly already in progress. This life has a fire escape and a pre-established harmony with a set of people I don't know yet. This new life tangos and forgoes some of the ancient habits that built me up.
We have left Toledo.
I have arrived in Atlanta.
And my pre-ordered life unpacks itself around me. Today, a day I have done nothing and spoken to almost no one, it occurs to me that I am already the person I will be.
But there is this tension - I am looking for it to be painful or meaningful or hard or something. It isn't. And that is terrifying.