This post is about fear and staring it in the face. This post is about first-floor apartments and walk-in closets. This post is about working on a PC again and learning new things. This post is about sharing an office and living alone.
This post is about heading back to the land of my alma mater.
I’m moving into a bigger apartment that has a pantry — something I didn’t ever think I’d be this excited about. I am starting a new job, focusing on the writing I have long-complained that I miss. I am going to work down the street from where my younger brother lives, and I might be getting a cat. I also will work out more. Maybe if I say it publicly on here, I will actually do it consistently.
Since 2012, I have moved five times, and am getting ready for the sixth. I’ve been to college and back again, to various types of “homes” that haven’t been quite the home I’m looking for.
It’s back to where it all started, in a way. To a time when I was happy, even when I was miserable. To a time when I could turn around and see my friends whenever I was lonely. To a time when I was learning constantly, and not feeling complacent.
I’m about to be a writer again, and I think that may just be the piece of home I’m aching for. It is — or was, or will be — the essence of what I want to be professionally and creatively. I’ve been searching for the right words for so long; perhaps going to a location where I am forced to create them is just what the doctor ordered. I am going to be a writer again. The words feel like an old friend on the tip of my tongue: dusty, but ready to come back out into the light.
This post is about the beginning. Or the sixth iteration if it, anyway.