It’s that time again. The time of duct tapes, bubble-wraps, boxes, trunks, newspapers, markers and, well, packing. Although it’s premeditated, but still, it is no different. As I strip my home, one article at a time, it feels exactly how it felt the first time – a feeling of sadness mixed with excitement; the feeling of ‘end of an era’.

The trunks and boxes are filling up and so are my eyes. They (tears) come and go, but the feeling remains.

Why is a move so emotional? It’s not like I am going away forever or that I don’t know what’s in store in near future, then why? Maybe it’s because no matter how much you try and keep your head in order, make yourself understand that the accommodation is temporary, it’s still home and will always be that- in your photos, albums and heart. You tried to restrain, tried to teach yourself in the past that less is more because in two years you would be cursing yourself while packing for accumulating all that stuff which has no real function other than to add to the persona of your home, but you still buy, you still collect. Those little trinkets have a history. Those miniature boxes that can’t hold anything worthwhile hold stories. You remember the time and place when you bought it. You remember the discussions you had with your partner about it. You remember the way you hemmed and hawed before picking those articles, picturing in your head where to place and which one would match better, and then smiled to yourself while placing and positioning the chosen ones. You remember the proud feeling when people came visiting and admired those little no-goodies.

The persona is getting boxed up though and the house is getting barren. I can’t help it. The walls that are now picture-less have a stamp of existence of those frames. Maybe the walls are still getting over the fact that the relationship is over. It’s okay. They will move on as soon as we move out; a fresh coat of paint and the traces of the two-year relationship will be swiped clean. Whoosh. Gone.

I wish I could lift this house that I call ‘home’ and install it on the next location. I wish my house had wings and it could fly. I wish I could magically make it appear every new place we get transferred to. It’s that time again. One of those times when I wished I weren’t a muggle.

Swish. Swoosh. Done!

There will be another house. This time will also come again. Until then, I will take away a glimpse of my house captured in these images.

Our house, our home, our haven, my humble abode
Our house, our home, our haven, my humble abode