5 Days Left.

The room is finally packed.

It was a difficult process for my mum, who had to tolerate her daughter's stony silence with an occasional nod, as she combed through my sea of belongings and tried to make sense of what was important and what was not.

It wasn't that I wanted to be in such a sour disposition. I didn't, and I appreciate my mum's help, without which I would still probably be swimming within the sea of my belongings. It's just that I felt that if I as much as opened my mouth, I would launch a full-blown tantrum rivalling that of three-year-old brats.

I hated putting my stuff into boxes. It was like confining the remains of my presence into tidy packages, sealing them up and stacking them in the store room, where they would gather dust whilst the world went on without them. Essentially that was what leaving meant, and it is a rude awakening that the world can function perfectly without you. The world would hold gatherings, birthdays, weddings, the General Election, funerals, all without you. You in the box.

I liked my room in its mess, where I knew where everything was. Mostly. Sometimes. OK, when I'm in luck. Now it's spotless and I can't find anything. It sucks.

OK. Enough emo-ing. A lot of other stuff to do.