Rest is for the weak.

I've been guilt-tripping myself about how little time I've had to pack my life away this past week since leaving my job, so now, despite the fact that it's 2 a.m. and I'm bleary-eyed and dizzy, I keep myself tucked amongst these boxes and bins. It's like a hurricane hit my room right now.

What can I say? It feels like a hurricane hit my inside too. But not in a bad way. Yes, it's a little scary. I've found myself making friends with the measuring tape and marking lengths and widths between my car's trunk, backseat, and all the boxes I've yet to fit so that this chaos can seem manageable. Practical and logical. Maybe because the prudent voice in my head understands when people raise their eyebrows, when they speak silently: "That's a little crazy, isn't it?"

Because I know it is. But the measuring tape and the boxes are all real, and so is this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach - the one that tells me I'm in this come hell or high water - so maybe if I could remember that there is still organization to the madness, that there are still numbers to be assigned and spaces to be fitted, I'll be at peace with what's to come.

All in all, I'm excited. A queasy, wring your hands, grab the guitar because the shivers can't be contained kind of queasy. I just hope I don't let anyone (and myself) down.