The End is Nigh

I posted this on my travel blog, but the tone really seemed to fit more with this blog, so I thought I would repost it here:

Whenever I leave a place I’ve stayed at for a substantial amount of time, I often wonder if it will miss me. I know it sounds silly, personifying such a large area, but I can’t help wondering.

When we first arrive in an area, we go through an adjustment phase. We get used to the feel, the look, the smell, all those good senses. For example, my room and the doorway to the bathroom. There is this ledge from my room into the bathroom and sits about an inch off the ground. The first night I got here, I walked into the bathroom, and stubbed my toe, tripping over the ledge. I did that for about two days, cursing myself, and that dang ledge every time. But now, I don’t even notice it. It’s amazing I remembered it at all actually. I avoid the ledge with complete subconscious dexterity. I have adapted.

There are many more examples I could site, and you know exactly what I am talking about. You do it in your own homes, too. That squeaky part of the stair you avoid, that screen door you slowly close to prevent it slamming shut, the drawer you have to gently open to prevent it from coming off the hinges. We adapt, without hardly noticing it.

So places must do it, too, right? I know, places are just nouns. They don’t have beating hearts or buzzing brains. They can’t remember, and they can’t feel. But they get used to you, too, just like we get used to them. Your desk chair knows your weight, your keys recognize your touch, and your office feels your presence. So when you just leave, when you just go, it must notice your absence.

People don’t thank inanimate objects enough. But if you recognize those tools that make your life so much easier, you develop an attachment. Not an unhealthy attachment, like most of the ones people have with objects. But an attachment of adoration built from appreciation.

This place here, my office, my dorm, my bike even, they have been home. When I first referred to my dorm as home, it felt awkward, unnatural. I actually corrected myself, calling it my dorm, not my home. But this is my home. The dingy walls lined with my Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus posters have become a familiar sight, the squeak the broken hinge on my wardrobe makes, a usual sound, and that annoying ledge that gave me so much trouble my first few days, is now just a commonplace fixture. It is safe to say that I will miss all of these things, as trivial as they may seem. And though I know life will go one here once I leave, that some new resident will take this room and make it their own, I wonder if the chair will miss my weight, or the keys notice my vanished touch, or my office feel my absence as it gets to know it’s new inhabitant.

peace.