Sunday, 8 August 2010

Goodbye Moreton.

In a little under three hours I shall be leaving my childhood home for what will hopefully be the last time, to move into a house in Kingston where I now live with five other friends. I have no doubt that I shall spend time here again, when I inevitably run out of money, but it won't be the same. My room will no longer be my room, even for the fact that it no longer contains my piggy bank. It will take on that peculiar feeling that rooms that used to contain children always do, the trinkets on the windowsill and indentations in the walls mere sad reminders of the happy times spent there.

The word 'RIOT' written in deodorant stain between two posters in a moment of Paramore-inspired anger. The burn on the window-ledge from teenage smoking. The covered-up burn mark on the floor from a pyromanic moment. Amongst the poetry scribbled on each wall, a dedication in blue from the one time I had school friends over to my house. The pockmarked walls from seventeen years of postered dedication to whichever band held my heart at that time.

I recently threw out a battered pair of shoes, the kind you could well imagine turning up in a poor angler's unsuccessful efforts, and before I did, I spent a little while remembering what they'd seen. From the day I bought them with, best friend approved, after a day at the beach before signing on, to the last rainy day when their holes became too much, their day-to-day use saw one of the most important periods of change in my life. So what then, has this room seen?

It's seen me grow up from an optimistic youth to the melancholic pessimist I am today. It's seen a myriad of friends, girlfriends, constants and flows. It's seen happiness. Pure, childhood happiness at the joy of LEGO, happiness at the first time I tied my laces by myself, played a song through, finished a computer game, finished a book, film, tv show, finished a video or a blog post. It's seen tears: Tantrums, depressions, worries. The first time I was dumped, the end of Gladiator, the end of Harry Potter, and tears that weren't mine: When my girlfriend crashed her car, arguments with my best friend, my Mom crying on my shoulder. It's seen laughter, excitement, despair, ecstasy, shame, and bewilderedness.

I was in this room that I discovered Twitter, found the joys of the internet. This room that I discovered John Green, in this room that I heard him read the commencement speech that would kick start a period of change that continues daily today, and in this room that I first decided to act on that.

I've lived in this house since I was two, and consider myself uniquely experienced because of it. Leaving a house that has seen me learn to read, write and get dressed is going to be tough. The only reassurance is that soon I will move into a fresh, new house, with new memories to make. New laughs to hear, new fights to worry about, new places to feel life.

It was in this room, sat exactly where I am now, listening to the same song I am now, that I first made this blog. It's nothing like I planned it to be: It's not famous, it's not candid, and it's not about sex. It's hardly worth reading, really. I recently found out that the one steady reader I thought I did have isn't as committed as I believed. But I guess that's fine. Maybe one day it will be something big, but until then, like the crack in the wall against which I lean now, it can serve as a reminder of all my short time on this earth has come to be.

Throw your arms around me.