the perils of moving and the lack thereof.

Main Entry: ¹move

Pronunciation: \ˈmüv\

Function: verb

(1): to go or pass to another place or in a certain direction with a continuous motion <moved into the shade>

(2): to proceed toward a certain state or condition <moving up the executive ladder>

(3): to become transferred during play move along diagonally adjacent squares>

(4): to keep pace <moving with the times> b: to start away from some point or place

whether it's moving across the country, across the dance floor, or across a plethora of tangled blankets to get out of bed, i am either far too eager or far too hesitant to do so.

I'm not going to move across the country, that's for sure. i had a bad experience in LA, and by bad experience i mean I was under-aged and with my mom on Rodeo Drive for a week.

However, I am preparing for another move in residency (mentally, at least). In this case, I am far, far too eager. I wake up in the morning, and when I'm here in this house I just want to get out, start the day, take a damn shower and blow dry my hair! let's get on with it already! I want to meet new people and try new things and go places alone so that strangers will approach me first to ask the time. I'll make small talk with the guy wearing fingerless black gloves in hopes of learning about his 7 years in art school just because I'm so sick of standing still. I sit on my 10 year old desktop DELL and look up flight prices to places like Austin and Berlin and Bucharest. I drive to the grocery store and spend money on vegetables I've already got tons of at home just to feel like I went somewhere. I watch Bromance at the pub on Monday nights and tell people I don't get MTV at my house so I can feel like I've gotten someplace. I am desperate to get out of this place, and it doesn't make me laugh but it certainly makes me look askance as if the corners of my ceiling are visions into my past, and i recall feeling this same, desirous feeling of just wanting to get the fuck out.

I am a mover. If nothing else, I am a mover.

And the last time I moved (in the sense of relocating where I have a "bedroom") I wasn't nearly as certain as I am now. I consider myself certain, despite what certain people say.

I consider myself so certain because when I wake up there, I wake up next to one of my best friends. We wake up and the last thing on my mind is moving. We have an almost routine practice of rambling the most ridiculous and senseless thoughts that have emerged from the array of dreams still fresh on our mind, which never fails to result in outbursts of laughter. And then eventually someone realizes that the day is awaiting our so fresh and so clean arrival. Showers are taken, the bed is made, the coffee is brewed, and eventually a subconsciously cooperative gathering over vintage couches and camel lights results in plans for the day. The entire household are people I look forward to watching walk through the door frame. Every person I bump into is an exciting encounter which will inevitably prompt plans for the rest of the day. Here? If i looked good in baseball caps I'd wear one to mask my identity from having to walk into yet another repetitive and boring situation. But my relatively newly discovered destination contains moves of a different kind; they are a product of wanting to experience life with each other. They are not, as they are here, an attempt to move away from where I am standing.

I hate to admit that I feel like the time goes by excruciatingly slow here, while the time is never long enough there.

And that is a large part of why I am continuing this move through life. I am passing to another place, and I'm certain that it is the right place for now. I am also certain that it will be in a continuous motion. Because I am a mover; I fall in love with people and places and plants and pubs and conversations and seasons and streets and different shades of eye shadow far too often to allow myself to commit to anything.

Or should i say anywhere.