I sit at my computer, staring at the mess that surrounds me. Water bottles strewn casually under the TV create an aleatory mosaic sea of blues, oranges and glassy reflections of plastic. A few clean jackets tossed on my couch barely conceal the ruffled stacks of T-shirts that lie beneath. Bags and boxes brimming with garbage punctuate the wall of my hallway as they await their imminent disposal. Although it's not possible to tell just how long things have been in such a state of disarray and chaos, I can't help but think of the temporary nature of these arrangements. In all the mess gathers the excitement of impending change. I know that tomorrow--even in the mere span of several hours--this place will look drastically different. From lived-in and abused to bare and impersonal, the transformation will evaporate all sense of this place having been my home for two years.

Moving is such an emotionally stimulating experience. Sifting through the inexorable accumulation of stuff time so predictably produces, the embodiment of many memories lies scattered around me. I see a movie ticket stub for "LUCKY NUMB" (in theatre #4) from 04/16/06 and I think of my lovely date that shared the evening with me. I see my Carte Orange and I think of all the magnificent sights beheld as we romped about the City of Lights. I see the watch I got for my 15th birthday and I think of high school mischief and relive repressed emotions. I see my Canadian flag perched on my television and think of my brother and the regret I don't know him better. All the things that remind me of life's blessings and struggles--and make this apartment mine, fully imbued with my life--are to be discarded or shelved away for some other day's reminiscence. And when all is finished, I will have weaned myself from the apartment and purged the apartment of any traces of me.

Although I look forward to moving on, leaving bears a certain finality that is always sad. Even if it's a place I have convinced myself I never really liked to begin with. In packing up and moving, there's the sense that a distinct chapter of life has ended, never again to be experienced with quite the same vivacity. I'll have memories of my bland, suburban neighbourhood but perhaps I will forget the sound of the Kinnickinnic River after a storm or the sanitized odour of an Aurora St. Luke's Medical Center hallway. My mental map of the city will develop fuzzy patches and what was once my neighbourhood might not be as recognizable. Familiarity breeds comfort and any loss of that becomes so perceptibly obvious, a palpable void. In spite of swearing off any affection for this city, I'll know without a doubt that I will surely miss it.