m o v e


    Three weeks before moving, the feelings were already mixed. I would not say it was an emotional time, more an indecisive period, overruled by bouts of positive thinking and the sensation of, maybe the tune of begin the begin and impatience.



     These days I am basically at work, sitting over a cup of either very week coffee, or a strong one (I prefer the one the breakfast guy makes, especially with plenty of milk, it is quite soft and soothing, and by now I have become accustomed to the smalltalk in the mornings, though I would never take the initiative), leaving the keyboard once in a while to get some water to counteract the dehydrating effect of coffeine, and, as another means to fight the numbness.







    The date has been set. With that, it has become real enough to be scary, even though there is still plenty of time. There is another week to settle things here and there is no-one and nothing to say good-bye to. Which, right now, is considered good. Really good, because where I am going might not have all that much to offer.

    It's silent anticipation with palpitations at times. Yes, I think I am scared.





    The last coffee or café experience from Dublin is a good one. Bewley's on Grafton Street, Saturday morning, 10 to 9.

    The waiter leads us to the dark purple sofa and the low coffee table by the fireplace. It is freezing cold outside so the bursting, burning warmth is welcome. I order capuccino praline, he orders tea. His only contact with coffee is through my lips. There is an old mirror over the mantlepiece and there are some antique looking carvings on the wall, warm, dark wood, and the walls in the hall are a warm orange-red, there is no rush or I am too sleepy to sense the outside world. I am just sitting by the fire with him in the café where we shared what would have been our wedding cake, just a few days after, and just a few days before great big changes, and everything feels so familiar, the seconds and the years all seem to dissolve and turn into something much more important.


It's been two years already. And it's been quite all right, not worse than anywhere else. Tough, but still, worth it, I thought. For all the work, for all the bad weather and even for the loneliness, it's been a valuable experience, that I am absolutely certain about. I have had the chance to feel alive at times, or at least I've been busy. At other times, it was like an excile, far away from the people I still call my friends and too close to certain people here, and for too long, to be able to make friends anymore. I am tired. I want to move. I want to get out of here and start everything anew.

It's the small things that count, the everyday things. There is nothing wrong with the world, it keeps turning, changing, evolving, aiming at something higher each time. But I have the worst kind of memory, the kind that retains almost, well, most everything. Places, movements, voices, motives, rhythms, eyes and especially the forces that somehow push through the surface that everybody is hiding behind.

The time now is the time to end something. Then the time to build, to start again comes. I am not looking forward to either of these, because of the implications, the complications and all the efforts behind them all. I prefer regularity. A routine. A steady pace. The same breakfast every day, well, most of the time. I like to know which way to move in the house in the dark without the need to rely on the sense of touch. I feel safe when I know the place where I am going, the road where I am walking and maybe even the people I meet day by day. I like to plan the day ahead, to manage my time, to make the most of it, so that when I venture somewhere distant I know when and where and how I am going to come back.

There is no escaping it, though, for all the practical reasons: a new job, the weather, friends, family, the lack of seasons here, and the need for privacy. The building blocks of life. They are there, so I follow. And I like to move. It brings new opportunities. I am not worried about that. I am more worried about how easy it is to let go of something. How little it must have meant then, and whether it was worth it, and whether next time, it will, or will not be the same.

At the moment, it is a time in between times. Halfway here, halfway (or less) already there. I cling to details, like mad men and women who become extremely meticulous. I still need to pack things to finally move, plenty of tiny things need to get done, and I have not given any tought to what needs to get done once we are there. Better not have elaborate plans, mainly to avoid disorder and disappointment. Still, I keep asking myself, if I just go along without a plan, is it going to be as good as it could be if I pushed a little, and maybe a little further. I have all the questions and none of the answers.

Silence is a good facade, though it's not the easy kind of silence. There are moments when I really want to go, to move on. To start something new and keep the past as little packs of memories - you know how things always become nicer after a while. There is a lot of uncertainty involved. Many ups and downs and very few people to rely on. There is a frail equilibrium, though, but however frail it is, it is all too promising, so much I wish I could throw my arms around it and never let it go.

If he doesn't hold my hand, if she doesn't talk to me, if he doesn't come all the way only to ask, if she doesn't take me to his grave, if my mother doesn't cry when I arrive, if I can't see her pictures, if there are no autumn forests there, if I never catch him watching me again, if she is too busy to meet, if he isn't what I thought he'd be, if time there flies more quickly, if peaches are not sweeter, if they don't call me the same names again, if the words don't come back and the wind is not the same, it's not worth it. But I very much doubt.





I don't think there is an awful lot to do before we set off. Sure, we'll still have plenty of luggage, but I am very thankful for everyone who has helped us move back home by taking some of our belongings. Close friends and mere acquaintances alike. People I consider "someone I can count on". I am ever so
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.
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speechless.

Well, indebted, to say the least. Worth going back home to.





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