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I don't know if you've ever done this.

Pack, and clean, pack, and clean.

You pack because you are leaving to go somewhere.

And there's all these emotions that seem to get packed away too.

Your mind is so blissfully blank for most of the process; you almost forget who you are, why you're packing, and where you're going.

Because it doesn't really matter.

You're picking what you have apart, taking only what is the most dear to you, and what is the most needed. And you stow it away. So it sits there, lying in a bag, and it's safe--it's ready--ready to go with you to where you must.

It's almost unapparent how important that bag is.

And as you stare at it, you can almost imagine yourself unpacking too, taking the neatly placed items out, and holding them. Trapped in the bag is also the smell of home, and a piece of it. When you finish packing home has come with you through that bag, and in a sense, you're home again.

But you are not.

And that is what is important.

That no matter what you take, and how much of it you take with you, there will never be a replacement in your heart.

Yet in my case, I am not trying to take home with me. In fact I tried to brush everything about home out. Because this thing--this place--this house, or this apartment, this room, is a prison. And where I go to matters not, what I bring matters little, how far my new destination is not even in mind; I take what won't remind me of this asylum, I bring not what I need but what can be brought to fit ridiculous standards, and I carry them with little reverance and little care.

I'm attempting to escape a penitentary, and I have so little hope of making it past these gates and walls. The guards are too vigilant, they watch from where they cannot be seen, some living in my mind as my thoughts and my persuasions.

The trip will exemplify me. I will be cruxified by ideas, dreams, and awoken by nightmares.

It's all as if I'm in a snow globe. And I'm dying for a shake; for the snow to come down. Because as I sit here, unmoving, and still--as that little boy in the globe--I'm dreading the standstill man I've become.

And I wait.

I've learned patience, despite the years it has taken to acquire so useful a trait.

And I wake.

As if always asleep, I've spent long years doing nothing but appeasing evanescent urges and transcendant lusts. It's been five long years and here I am, empty handed, back where I started once again.

And I wait.

I wait for her to come, and give this snowglobe of mine a shake.

Because unless somebody makes it snow in your world or mine, we all forget we are alive.

僕らの街で