Two weeks

It's all come down to this. In two weeks I have to pay my bills, cancel my internet and phone, collect all the money owed to me, pack my things, tie up loose ends, say my goodbyes, and leave Japan. Honestly, if I could do without all the unnecessary bullshit and just bail, I would. I'm looking forward to being home, but I'm less than thrilled about the steps I still need to take in order to get there. Shit just isn't that simple, I guess.

But what the fuck am I going to do with all this crap I've accumulated? Fuck this shit is stressing me out more than it should.

On a related note, here is an excerpt from the story I've been working on:

Again with the two weeks. Like the span of my entirety is going to be carefully measured, assessed, and reassessed in the next fourteen days. The engineers of my existence are going to lay me down in a work room, a dark cosmic lab, figure out the kinks messing with the inner mechanisms of what makes me who I am, and rewrite my blueprint to remodel and rebuild me. Then after it all, I’m supposed to expect everything to fall into place, everything to be all right, to be fine, to be in tip top shape? I just can’t accept that. I’m not an engine left in an auto shop needing some serious repairs. I’m not a cyborg in some crappy 70’s TV show about to be made better, faster, stronger. I’m a living, breathing human being. Sure, strip me down, and I’m nothing but a lump of flesh. But no lump of flesh can instantly be fixed in the span of fourteen days. In two weeks, this pneumonia might be gone, but I’ll still be the same awkward, walking, talking, thinking, breathing lump of flesh and organs and bone and muscle as before. And no amount of words of reassurance will ever change or fix that. As an imperfect being, this thing inside me that’s broken can never be fixed. It is, after all, an intrinsic part of what makes me human. The whole idea both fills me with hope and drains me of it, so much so that I start feeling weary.