After a while, things aren't exciting anymore.
A routine becomes apparent.
It is just the day-to-day, with people living for the weekend and events planned too far ahead to be exciting, really.
Maybe it is because we moved a lot when I was little, maybe it is just an increased emphasis on mobility and travel by modern society, but my bones are aching to pack my bags again, head out into the unknown.
When I reach that unknown, it is always shit, initially. I remember not having friends the first year we lived in Geneva, and then when I had found some in the second year we moved again. In Mexico City it was a different language and different children, and again I had no friends. Again, it took me a year of stalking my older sister during break time so as not to be alone. Again, when I made friends in the second year we had to leave. But this time was different. Notions of family life changed, everything cracked a little, everything became a little harder than it needed to be. And then, after school, after having found people, I needed to leave, to get out from underneath it all.
The leaving, that is the only constant.
And now, man, now having things seems stupid, having a tiny life seems stupid, having meaningless to-do lists seems stupid. There is no value to this.
So I look at my things, calculate how much they would be worth, imagine where I could sell them and make what I want fit into a suitcase again.