I thought I'd be depressed once I'd finished packing all my stuff, saying goodbye to my first real space in my adult life.  I had built Maamo the way I wanted it, from the furniture hand-crafted by our carpenters or picked from the pseudo-Ikea shops. I had a picture in my head of how I wanted this place to look and I put it all together with my own sweat, so when the time came to finally pack and dispose of my possessions, I thought I'd lose a part of me with this space.

Tonight my stuff are all in boxes, the rest in the garbage or in the hands of those who deserve them. The kitchen sink, were once stood my white Luminarc dinner set my mom picked out with me, is clear and has been scrubbed clean for the first time since I moved here last year.  Most of the furniture is gone, and aside form the boxes stacked four-high, the floor is clean and the walls are empty.

It reminds me of the first time I walked into this apartment September last year, when my ex I just left said she saw it and thought it was so "me." Now that my bags are in order, and the amenities are almost nill, it feels much like check-out time at a hotel room.  I had a good time here, but it isn't my home and so I'm off to where I really belong. :o)