Gone. There's that word, and with it a sinking feeling right at the bottom of my stomach.
Gone. Such a vulgar, crass-sounding word, hard and Anglo-Saxon. Pitiless, and alone.
It's early to pack everything away, but as I slowly begin to dismantle this chamber that is my fortress, it touches me again, in realer ways, that it's all over.
Rather like the sad-but-happy ending to a series of good books that comes after a long journey with characters who feel as real as ice and fire, with you turning each last page with trepidation, that sinking feeling growing, knowing that when you reach the end of the last sentence, and read the death knell that is the final period: there's never going back. Oh, you can reread a series of books, and sometimes, if you're lucky, feel the same way about them as you did the first time; or almost. Life is different, in that way, and for that harder, and more poignant (a word I strangely despise right now).
And then comes that masochistic instinct of mine, to linger on every sad moment like this one, knowing it's being sad that means you have reason at other times to be happy, and seeing the very fringe of loss the best way to show what you've gained.
My bedroom really is my best friend, in a sense. It knows my darkest secrets, my deepest hopes, my greatest desires, my ugliest weaknesses, and most terrible fears. It can't talk or think, and that's why it has become to me what it is. It is my fortress, a strong shelter when I grow too angry at the world to face it, or too shunned by it to try. It keeps me safe when my heart breaks—once every few months or so, you know how it is—and it Never, Ever tells.
My room has seen the triumphs I've had, or many of them; the moments of glorious ascension as I write my own end to a novel, or read someone else's. And however far I go, however much I distance myself from it, till now it's always been something to come back to. When I've turned monster on those least worthy, and retreat in fear of my own created gore, it does not judge me, or ask me why: and while it lasted, it was good.
A fortress of my own making, a place to store my soul. Now, I oversee the destruction of it, watching it fall in pieces from now till September. A mighty fortress is my room, a bulwark rarely failing; A helper, it, amid the floods, of mortal ill prevailing. No longer now, to shelter thou from darkness penetrating. I'll hit the road and go to Wales, and...have a good life, or something.
I don't want to end on a lamely happy note, or dwell melodramatically on a sad one; my feelings are as mixed up as my soul, and just about anyone can tell you that's saying something. For now, my room's a wreck—yes, I did stop to write this in the middle of my work—and I should get on that, doing my best to let that tinglingly-sad feeling linger, savouring the pain by the drop.