It's really bizarre to be sitting in my room right now as I type this. The only remaining pieces of furniture are my bed and desk, which I've sold and therefore must stay here, and my nightstand, which will be gone by the end of the day. Exactly one half of my room has been repainted white from it's former shade of cafe olay. Almost all of the books and movies that used to dominant the room have been extricated and all of the pictures that made the room feel comforting and restful are gone. By the end of the day, this room will be officially devoid of almost all evidence that I ever spent two years of my life in it.
Those two years have been pregnant with change and memory. I have cried, laughed, stressed, worked, played, read, vegged, and occasionally slept in this room for two of the most significant years of my life. And as I pack up the last of my personal possessions, I'm also packing up my time here, which makes me sad. I'm saying goodbye to an immensely significant time of my life.
Now I wait to find out where the next room will be and what it will be like. I leave cette chambre to wait. And that's scary and frustrating.