On the one hand, moving has me feeling like I’m living in a fancy hotel. It’s…special. Exciting, still. An indulgence.
On the other hand, I am feeling a deep desire to get my roots back down into the ground. To find a new routine. Figure out the new rhythms, ebbs and flows. Have things set, where I know where they are. That last one is not a metaphor…I literally don’t know where 2/3 to 75% of my shit is right now because it’s all in boxes.
This week was really, REALLY busy for me work-wise. I got my shit done—for the most part; I do still have some catching up to do this weekend, ugh—but it was difficult, I’m not going to lie, because everything around me was chaos.
I haven’t written for probably a month. I haven’t gotten up on time in the mornings since the time change. And this week, I haven’t had the time and/or the energy to unpack my shit. So…this weekend, that’s what I want to do. I’m in bed right now pretty much on time. I’m going to set my alarm for a reasonable time to get up. And I’m going to build some shelves and put some shit away.
Wish.
Me.
Luck.
Night night.