Little by little things are starting to disappear from my apartment, and in 48 hours it won’t be mine anymore. There’s a decided sadness about leaving it; somehow this place has become a symbol of my supreme independence. Of calling all the shots. I maybe even did some growing up in these last two years.
So like all good things, it smarts to see its end. But the thrill of moving on is far greater than the sting I feel in leaving. A classic Mark Twain quote eases a tight chest when caught in the throes of nostalgia: