Do you ever get a weird feeling when you stop and think about where exactly you are? Like, right now I'm hours and hours and miles and miles away from the town I grew up in. I'm sitting at a desk in a library, watching people study (read: browse Facebook) and I realize, "Well, hot damn. Look where I'm at."
I'm the first one of my many, many siblings to officially "move out." Sure, we've all had periods of residence with certain significant others, but usually that only amounted to living out of an overnight bag, and then coming home every so often when everyone else was at work to exchange the dirty clothes we had for clean ones. But moving here, to where I'm at now, involved me packing everything I deemed important into cardboard boxes and Tetris-ing them around a disassembled Poang chair in the back of a Honda Fit. (Note: The Fit was actually a surprisingly good moving vehicle. Good amount of cargo space and amazing gas mileage, plus it looks like a hamster. Can't beat that.)
The thing that gets me is this: The actual act of moving out didn't really affect me all at once. I mean, I wanted to get away and on with my life for years before I actually did. But I wasn't excited, or sad, or angry. (I don't know why I would be angry.) It was more like, "Okay, this is my life now, cool beans. Proceed as normal."
I don't really get too homesick, either. I do miss my friends and my family, don't get me wrong. I went home for my town's fall carnival, and by the end of three days I was itching to come back to school. At school, I have freedom and as much space as an introvert could ever possibly want. At home, yeah, lol, none of that, especially when the number of siblings you have living in such a confined space can feasibly be described as a "herd."
The moral of the story is this, padawans: Once you want to get out of your small town and see the world, you won't really ever want to go back to how life was beforehand. Ever. And that's a good thing.
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