life in a suitcase; im living out of it.

my house is empty. everything that has been here for the past ten years, since we moved in, is gone. except for the wardrobes and the sofa, everything else has been thrown away. my mum spent the better half of the morning saying goodbye and thanking the refrigerator for almost 18 years of service amidst frantic packing and conpulsive ironing (on my dad's side). and now, im sitting on the floor writing this, vaguely aware that the television sounds louder than it usually is. suddenly, i wish i was taking lit again in uni, where all i would have to do is write. no calculations, no formulae. just me, my thoughts and my feelings. i want to feel the delirium of being transported into another time and place, to be someone else; to feel all they are feeling, even if it's simply for a page or two. being an invited intruder. i miss all of that. i don't ever want to wake up and realise that i have lost my passion for words and my love for writing. maybe thats why im still blogging, albeit about the most boring of days. it gives me an excuse to write, whether it makes sense or otherwise.

tomorrow marks the beginning of my three week stay at hotel hamilton. it also means that i have one week till the exams start, for which i am so unpreparesd. yet, i seem to be taking great pride in being the undefeated queen of hearts and spider solitaire now.