azurelunatic

Day by day, I sidestep closer to my new life. Perhaps in defiance of my youthful habit of planning things to the death and beyond, my next three weeks are nebulous everywhere outside the back regions of my head. I pack my boxes. I figure out what will fit in two cars full. I figure out what I can take with me into my new life. I figure out where it was that I departed from plan and realized I wasn't staying in Phoenix. I figure out what I want to do with my life. I figure out how I can leave when there's a chain around my heart and something's going to snap. I figure out ... how to stop over-analyzing it all and start defying gravity.

Details like 'where am I going to live' and 'what am I going to do for work' will make me flail and fail if I take them head-on. Today I took some words, put them together in an order I liked, ran the parts that I wasn't too sure about past some of my sanity-checkers, and sent them off to meet the future that I desperately want. Tomorrow, because these things must be done in order, I put some more words together, and see what else will bite, and which will get me a response first. The future I want won't fall giftwrapped into my lap unless I bring the paper.

It's the little details that impress on me how real it is. There are Oreo boxes in my living room, because that's what they were stocking, and they're nice and reasonably-sized, and perhaps just exactly right for books. I have a lot of books. And in the parking lot after IHOP, I was counting the Mondays. This Thursday (tomorrow? Is it tomorrow already?) is perhaps for LJ fudge, or something; the regular connection with the House to prove we're all still human. Saturday is TGIO; the party for the end of NaNo. (Book 1 is waiting in the wings. Book 2 is just done. Book 3 is yet to be. I want to get Cutting-Room Floor out the door first, though. Book 1 can wait for some spare time that we both have.) Monday ... Monday is problematic.

When are finals over? He was studying this Monday. Will he be studying on the 8th? The 15th? We will have time. We will make time. I am acutely aware that suddenly we do not have time. We will assuredly see each other again after I move, for I refuse to allow a universe cruel enough to deny us that, but suddenly I am counting the days and realizing that I can count them. I send an email. They're the short ones, the chatty ones, and somehow I have put enough emotion into a few overburdened sentences to make them want paragraphs to cushion the sting. I don't have paragraphs. We don't have time.

Day by day, I turn to face my new life.