PACKING FEELS OF RETREAT, A REGRETFUL LONGING OF PLACES NEVER BEEN AND PLACES YET TO VISIT. you are prudent, cautious, for each item you claim your own has purpose and a prospect of utility; you wonder, in transience, if this is a trait you will ever escape from. bemused by your own idiosyncrasies, you shake your head, dismissing such passing dreams of senses of normality. even if packing another sweater seemed absurd, you find yourself doing so, for the days when it rains so often does it pour. who shall it be you travel with ? for people were so often without names, so often transient and spectral. your gaze sinks to your fingers, furling them with a sense of purpose, exhaling in the same method, unfurling, it's okay to let yourself go, even in these moments of fleeting peace. so you permit yourself these little, habitual things, you fold the beige sweater adjacent to its predecessor, tuck it meticulously within the confines of your bag. you've been practical, with changes of clothing, a small collection of snacks / that you had to diminish quite forcefully. you think of times when you had nothing, when only ashen air scorched your lungs, it's apprehension within those memories that makes you yearn for more than you could ever possibly need. someone calls your name, a familiar voice, an ear twitches and you hastily zip up your bag. you need this, these normal days unfurling before you, these bonds that make you want this present to be your own; you won't admit how much it means to you, but oh, how it does.
