Nothing screams 'change' more than packing up. Not last exam, hours of writing each and every flowery words I could generate from hours of cramming things in my brain. Not last presentation, in which I try to justify my FYP, and no, it doesn't suck, Mr. Supervisor and Mr. Advisor, not at all. Not eating spaghetti for last time, with sudden realization that I was bored of it. Maybe I've known it all along.
Throwing things feels like throwing evidence of my life away. Part of my life, discarded, lost in sea of memory. That's what my sentimental brain said while my logical brain scoffed: If I have no use for it, then it means nothing— was never important enough to mean anything— but only a rare reminder.
Housemates who are leaving, another reminder of changes. We may not be close at all (mostly my fault, I'll acknowledge that, or better, I have to acknowledge that), but it is quite sad to see them leaving. Not because of the curt goodbye (I don't care much for goodbyes), but because of a reminder of what a failure of housemate I've been and knowing all the communication we'll be doing are odd conversations here and there at Facebook.
This emotional turmoil, it's because I don't want to acknowledge the changes, but it's pretty hard when reality hits you hard right in the face. The torrents of emotion I've been feeling is the comfortable bubble of denial forcefully popped, the warmth of hiding blanket being taken away. Opportunities, what could have been, all the ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s. Time is running out, or maybe it has run out a long time ago.
I grieved, as always. Just because it feels like the right thing to do. Grieving gives a closure, the permission to move on.
And I reached the final stage of grief: acceptance. Year of challenge, eh? Bring it on.
