Sure, there were other unpleasant things. Rushing to get everything into boxes. Frantically forming miscellaneous groups. Washing down the walls. Cleaning out the stove, the bathroom. Wondering if we'll get the security deposit back. And saying good-bye...
I've lived a majority of my young adult life in that apartment. And now I've let it go. We definitely moved up. I've mentioned this before. The new place kicks complete ass. But the old place whispered about things you just can't put into words. History that you couldn't quite put your finger on.
Now it's all done. The last couple things that made the apartment mine have been removed.
After it was all over, I sat down in the living room and smoked one last cigarette. I made my peace with the space.
Then I did a final walk-through. And on the floor in the kitchen, I found the last two magnetic words: Leave ink. It was like its very own magnetic poem. And it made a lot of sense to me.
We left the old apartment. But the old apartment left some ink on the rustling transcript of my brain.
And maybe that's what it's all about: It's not about spaces. It's not about times. It's about leaving long trails of permanency inside your head that remind you of the places you've been and the things you've done.
The people and the places might be gone, but I can still hear the echoes.
Leaving more and more ink.