Time is always called ethereal, fleeting - a thought, but not a thing; a motion, not a mark.  No longer so for me.  Time has now begun to inhabit the places I lived those moments in.  Not that this makes memories any more permanent, since with my leaving, time and the ravages of entropy inevitably transform the places of memory into foreign lands.  Old homes become particularly bittersweet in this regard - familiar enough to recognize, but changed enough to become newly met strangers again.  Walking through the transformed halls of childhood buildings is like looking into the eyes of a parent who can no longer recognize you as their own.  

This seems especially true tonight, packing up the flotsam and jetsam from the remnants of the last five years.  I am suddenly struck by the fact that I will never visit this space again - will never again stand in these rooms which witnessed the wringing of my soul for so many years, never again be before these familiar walls, their pictures hung just so, their curtains placed with care.  My dismantling here is an act of ruthless destruction, met with deliberation and care.   I will dismantle them, piece by piece, wrapped in clothes and newspapers, bundled in boxes and bins, and ever so carefully cart them across the miles and the time, where they will form the start of a new life.