If my room here at 61165 River Bluff Trail consists mostly of me and the things I've put into it, then I shouldn't be the least bit sad about leaving behind its jagged, lofty architecture. What I care about is coming with me, and what now only serve as relics will be disassembled, boxed, forgotten - much as they would have anyway, but without the slow creep of time further distancing me from my attachment. This here's a change, swift as the best of them... one of those that makes life worth living.
Excitement! Moving on and on and on. Personal growth. THE FUTURE.
But what of my brother in the next room over? And the view from the porch's corner? And this, the most silent of silences, over which a literal glut of stars preside? What am I supposed to do with my bone-deep love for these things? They can't be boxed, and they most certainly can't be forgotten. Resigning them to memory seems like something an old person would do.
Ah, that word again: old. I'm getting old. Probably not so much in the eyes of those older than me - though, of course, their gaze isn't the one that matters. My own is the one that keeps eyeing the boxes now housing approximately 83% of my existence. My own is the one that can't bring itself to stare down the rest and justify my leaving it behind because it. just. doesn't. matter. Because it belonged to youth - or, at least, a more youthful part of youth. Youth within youth. And youth within youth within youth. But you can only go so far until youth just can't fit any more youth within it, and that's when you know you're leaving it, and that's the landmark I rapidly feel myself approaching.
And the stars will keep blinking. And my brother will keep sitting in the next room over, himself aging until he as well abandons his room. And then it will just be my parents, alone here with the most silent of silences, wilting nightly under the looming stars. And it's almost too much to think about. Almost.
A job might ease the unease, but will it really? I have a hunch it will just make those moments of silence all the more unbearable, because when you finally take a breath after God knows how many months of not, and it all comes rushing back, what kind of job could possibly make the distance, the time, the leaving behind of the posters, all worthwhile? What shimmering future moment could possibly equate to the glory of youth?