Moving stirs nostalgia in a strange way. You start waking up in the morning thinking, “This is one of the last times I will wake up to this view.” Or, “Gosh the light is really great at 7am! Has it always been this great?” When the reality is that the light seems better because your soul knows there is freedom from these walls out there somewhere. Also, its spring now.
Moving makes you do stupid things like graze your fingers across the bookshelves you made from old IKEA entertainment center doors and Container Store hooks and think, “I will never again see these things heaped and crammed together in just this way.” Or, “Maybe my new apartment will have room for more shelves so my books don’t have to be haphazardly smooshed and strewn about.” Although, obviously deep down inside you know that your books will always be strewn about haphazardly because the extent of organizing your reading material is chronological. In the sense that whatever was read most recently is on top/left/right of whatever stack was nearest or the least precarious at the time of commencement.
Moving is like a break-up in the sense that you start thinking “Maybe we should stay and try to work things out? It wasn’t really that bad.” Even though the freshness and sting of the last great battle is still pulsing in your mind and blood pressure. There will always be more loud neighbors. More thumping bars next door. And likely, more dirtbag landlords. You weigh the options of at least knowing your enemy and what you’re up against, or having to rally against the unknown. But the new is too inviting, too attractive. Someone’s old crappy discarded apartment is going to be YOUR new fresh start for the next chapter. So turn the page, pack the boxes, blur your Instagram photos into happiness and close the door that firmly locks now.