Packing Until the Bitter Burning End

It's taken me a week to pack my shit and I'm still not done. I don't even have that much to pack, but there is something about the process that is intrinsically therapeutic, meditative. My housemates all tease me because under the influence my two favorite things to do are clean and stretch, which I tend to do efficiently and effectively. Packing is similarly therapeutic, but takes at least triple the time it needs to. Cleaning and stretching are synonymous to physical and emotional maintenance for me. Packing is a trip down memory lane where I never know what ghosts from my past might pop up. I am easily distracted by old to-do lists, sketches, articles of clothing I thought were lost and remind me of what I was doing the last time I wore them or took them off. Then I have to stop and write, or listen to a song. I've been listening a lot to Bon Iver's rendition of I Can't Make You Love Me, which I discovered on my sisters' facebook profile. She has such great taste in music and I am so grateful to have this song accompanying my rainy Friday of work/pack/reflection time.

Chris and I just smoked a rolled cigarette on the porch. It's something we've done on and off all year and I really have grown to cherish those 10 minute moments of stop-time. It's hard for me to just be, and I feel like the cigarette is always a good excuse to watch life unfold without feeling like I have to be the agent of it's progression. As usual, I smoked the nub til the bitter end. I love smoking until I can feel the heat on my lips, until it almost burns.