Fast forward, I’m standing still

I’m packing all my belongings again. Another move. This time I’m not boarding any planes, crossing any seas or oceans, or pulling up my roots. 150 blocks north, its still Manhattan actually.

Even though things are starting to fall into place, and the arrangements are comfortable (well, come February 1st), I still wonder if I’m doing it for the right reasons. I think this time I have no reason. I’m just out of options. It seems like the easiest thing to do - even if the process is complicated and the outcomes are uncertain.

Am I staying for the sake of my career? For my friends, although only half of them will still be here after the holidays? For love, for sex, hey, even for a little bit of masochism? No idea. I’m sure I’m doing it for the wrong reasons, whatever they are, but I’m also sure that it will still work out for the best and prove to be the only feasible thing to do. Thats just how cats like me land.  

If only books werent so heavy and clothes so easily crumpled, and if only I had a place to stay for two weeks after January 15th.

Every year I think I love Christmas. I hunt down the perfect Christmas trees, and I plan the perfect presents. I unleash all my harbored creativity on gift wrapping, and I stop eating for weeks just to make room for more Christmas dinner.

Christmas is always about coming home. From Bergen, from London, from New York. Reuniting with old friends you havent seen since last Christmas. Planning the perfect New Years Eve that is bound to be a let down, but hey, thats tradition.

And then .. As the actual week creeps up on me, when everything has been made and bought, an icy feeling starts growing in my stomach and I am the loneliest person on the planet. It happens every year, and every year I forget. Until it happens again. The feeling that something is wrong, that something is missing, is inevitable.

Every year I forget how long it takes to pass .. Perhaps I dont even notice when it does. But it must, each time, unless the icyness spirals year by year, down down down. But no. The Ghost of Christmas Past, thats what it is. A reminder of something so far gone that I can no longer identify it. An empty promise - thats what Christmas is.

Maybe next year I’ll go somewhere where the sun shines and prevents blocks of ice from growing.