There's too much and too little happening at the same time. On one hand life is as still as it could have been in a long, long time. I feel like Dunbar from Catch-22, getting bored just to make myself feel the days are endless and will never pass. I haven't even started counting them down, because it'll happen when it's time, so what's the point of wasting breath over it?
All I know is, forward nine months and I will not return the same person. Everyone keeps telling me that. I will (hopefully) have conquered homesickness, the blues, the sense of feeling lost in a crowd, of being unsure, of never having been out in the world on my own.
It's a fresh start and I'm measuring it out with my clothes. I can take all the ones people have already seen me wear, because there no one will know me. No one will know what I've already worn. And no one will know me as I have been, as I am now.
Bring on the bubble wrap.