ariadnelives: (Default)
[personal profile] ariadnelives
I'm in that annoying stage of the move where there is something left to do in every room, and the attention that the kitchen and bathroom need is becoming more painful to acknowledge as the rest of the rooms clear out. I should be cleaning, but I want to sit with the quiet and a cup of coffee for a little while longer. I was going to stay at the new place last night, but as things stood at about midnight, there still isn't room to put my bed down, and I still had an air mattress, so I crashed here, in what will soon be my old place.

La la la.

I finally threw out old journals from when I was 20-23. I'd been keeping them in my box of memorabilia, which I usually use to store things that make me (or have made me) feel loved or at least very much present in a particular moment. Journals though, especially those, just suck for accomplishing a sense of re-anchoring my metaphorical boat. Last night I caught up on myself, age 27, which wasn't quite as painful but was still hard to read. When I look at things I've written, it's like watching a fat, bespectacled pubescent band kid wander around the cafeteria looking for a place to sit where other people won't throw french fries in his/her hair. Like, I can empathize with myself, having been there once, but another part of me wants to step in and stop the whole thing from happening.

I bought a nice color for my new room-- it's something like Darker Butter, or Late Afternoon Sunshine or Faded Oranges. It's a warm yellow. I also bought a dark blue gloss, and I'm planning on painting all of my bookshelves (and parts of the surfaces of the built-in stuff) and making a wall of books, even though the shelves are all different sizes. I'm looking forward to hardwood floors and built-in drawers and shelves.

I have a lot to do. I best get on it.
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ariadnelives: (Default)

April 2017

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