I like everything in boxes.
There’s something comforting about the idea that there’s a place for everything—or everyone—to belong. I have all sorts of different boxes, separating my magazines from my pictures. A box for old school notes. A box for lightbulbs. Some of them are store-bought. Some of them are recycled and reused packaging. And the boxes themselves, they have a place, too. Nice and neat.
So I’m starting interviews next month. After much thought, I’ve seriously considered staying here. I’ve lived here for 8 years now, and it is more home to me than my parents’ house ever was. I have my favorite restaurants, I know how to get to pretty much any place in town, and I know when I should avoid certain intersections. Everything has its place. Maybe this is mine.
The truth is, I’m afraid. My first step into the real world, and it involves too many suits and expensive lunches. Too many hotel stays and rented cars on empty stretches of highways. The road signs can tell you where to go, but you will have to get there on your own. It’s too fast, 90 mph is much too fast. *sigh* And I don’t know if I can fly on my own.
And then I will have to pack up my life into boxes. Make a new place a home. Starting all over again. I just want to belong somewhere.
