Nerves.

The apartment has an echo to it, now. The floors turn the soles of my feet black from grime, but the shelves and walls are empty. The hallway is lined with the remains of a life, destined now for the recycling bin, mere morsels saved for the leap. One day remains. One day of removing any clues of my existence from this tiny corner, of removing myself from the embrace of those I have grown to love so terribly in these gut-wrenching Stockholm years. One day of closing the door softly behind me, only to open another behind which I don't know what lies. Third time is a charm. A dozen moves under my belt; my mother calls with envy in her voice over the delightful tickle of clearing out and packing up. We are addicts for the New.

In the stress of departure, in the sadness that builds in my chest for imminent farewells, I forget the adventure that lies ahead. I forget how close I am to glueing my broken heart back together again.

The vision leaves me panting on the floor, gasping for air, trying to hold on to something, anything, to keep from falling. This is no life. The money, the apartment, the stocked pantry and vacation plans. They don't mean anything to me. They let me sleep soundly at night, but I don't want to sleep.

I want to live.

A long-deserted corner of my soul begins to stir.
Prepare for whatever it is that lies ahead.