i am a little explosion

I find that whenever I make attempts and maintaining a blog, my posts inevitably will eventually consist of nothing but me accounting for how much time has passed between posts. It makes for very boring reading. I can't believe it's been a month since my last post. I can't believe it's been half a year. I can't believe it's been over a year. You get the picture.

I can't believe two holidays have passed since my last post. I have completely neglected my little budding blog through both Christmas and New Year's. How horrible a father I truly am. However, I have been without access to the Internet for over a week. In the past seven days I have spent 35 hours traveling over 2,000 miles of interstate. I have carried three car loads of my belongings the distance from Jacksonville, FL and Clarkesville, GA. In between, I threw as much, if not more, into the dumpster behind what used to be my apartment building. I donated two truck loads of furniture and various kitchen appliances to a mission church in Jacksonville. I didn't even ask for a receipt for tax purposes. Someone should give me a medal. As if it's really that challenging to have two guys carry all of your belongings out of your apartment for you.

The act of moving really did overshadow the holidays. Perhaps it's depressing, but who am I to complain? I guess perhaps my heart just wasn't in the spirit this year. I did buy a few gifts, though. Some artwork from my good friend Laura Eklund for my dad, for being so supportive during my four years at college, and for Nick and Danielle, for allowing me to be their official third wheel for the past year. I bought my sister a DVD. She gave me a knit cap. So, I guess everyone's even now.

Standing in an empty apartment is a strange feeling. Particularly an empty apartment that you have called home for almost two years. After the floors had been mopped, all of the counter surfaces wiped and the glass shower doors scrubbed, I stood there listening to the echo of 500 square feet of tiled floor, feeling the burn in my lungs from all of the cleaning chemicals I had just inhaled. It was at that moment, when everything was so white and sterile and hollow that I finally felt that I was leaving. At that point, it was no longer my apartment. I wasn't leaving home, but rather going home. I wonder if anyone has ever written a book on the psychology of "home." I'd be interested in reading it.