I AM PACKING. I am moving.

Empty boxes made of cardboard become the vessel for books and memories. Dust swirls as I pull clothes out from the back of a cupboard, irritating my nose. I sneeze repeatedly. The rain falls steady like a heartbeat all night long and it delights you like a child. 

I've moved house three times in the past four years. Up and down the highway I drive, my personal life strapped down under tarpaulin and rattling on the back of a trailer. Packing has a way of forcing you to clinically look at what you choose to keep in your life. What you want to keep, and what you'd like to throw away. I have to get rid of surplus items. Things I no longer wish to be burdened with. Old bookshelves. An amount of paperwork that jeopardises the world's supply of trees. Clothes no longer worn. And this feeling I used to have that life would forever be monotonous and bland, painful in its peacefulness. 

But life will not be like that now. Life will be yellow light streaming in through the living room window. It will be scrabble tiles clattering on the table as the kettle boils in the background. Life will be home studio days, coffee on a Sunday at the kitchen table. Life will be OWNING a kitchen table, and all the cups and saucers that rest on its surface. 

I feel myself unfolding into my new space, as if it were my own body - not my possessions - that have been encased in cardboard and shunted down the highway in the boot of the car. Trapped in the dark only to emerge into the light with those soft floating things that hang weightless in the air. 

You know what's nice? Creamy sunlight breaking through the thick scab of winter, touching the white delicate underbelly of my being. Riding along the river late in the afternoon and breathing deeply. Waking up early and feeling rested. Clean socks smelling of detergent warm after a shower. A proper coffee. The smell of spring. Green lights on the drive home from work on a Friday afternoon. Unpacking boxes of books and feeling their gentle weight in your hands once more, before slotting into place on a new book shelf you've just bought from Ikea. 

Life is nice. Just living and existing in a space that is your and that you share with someone you care about. That's what's nice. 

- Made


Made StuchberyComment