Moving Out

Scott Get the Van, I'm Moving by Cayetana

The hardest part of moving out, moving out, moving out is
I remember moving in
I remember moving in

The lyrics pound around my skull. For something that so many people assume is filled with the world's most brilliant specimen of grey matter, it's ringing quite hollow tonight. I've done my best to simultaneously drain it of all substance (both solid and liquid) and add color to the situation. Specifically brown color, via drowning it in the Pacific O(cean) or filling it with a darker, dangerous liquor. Both go down smoothly.

Moving in isn't always pleasant. It's so often associated with an expression of freedom: today, tonight, tomorrow, I am setting out on my own personal adventure. Right now, in this moment, the sphere of individual freedom grows one more inch outwards. Expanding humanity's vast, unimaginable reach over all they can see. But it's not binary! Every person who moves in has an opposing risk of intruding. This planet has nothing left to discover. As someone who lives in a city that was founded before my arrival, the taste of gentrification is present on my tongue and my seasonings. I wish I could tell you I invented the flavor.

Regardless, we're not here tonight to pay appropriate respect to those grievances. Instead, I'm here to remember the first time a mysterious third party told me how this would go. It was foretold by a physical giant, albeit a one hiding the heart of a petite fieldmouse in real life. Dimensions be damned, the forecast was accurate: you are going to give your life up until this thing launches. I looked sideways, I laughed with my friends, I worried, but ultimately, I went to bed.

I can't tell you how right they were in mere words. Look at the wrinkles, pounds, and scars for a hint this has taken on me. Look at the inbox and the outbox, a ratio and a numerator that has fallen year after year. A bright and chipper 30 is young on paper, but it's not the New Year's resolutions that are hurting my body. Nothing hurts more than a close friend reminding you they checked out last year. The issue with building calluses over regrets is that your hearts no longer weighs as light as a feather. Good luck running, they'll follow you into the next one. It's a fact that no machine can run forever. But I promise you, I promise you, I promise you: I meant every second of it.

I just want to tell you how much it means to me. To watch that thing go.

I've seen it get built, tested, torn down, redone, this time's the charm, nope we didn't think of that, bullets dodged, gut sucked in, this time it has to, this time it did, this time it must, and thank god, we're still here. The secrets I held deep inside me now exist on internet videos for all to see. The nights of not sleeping, the days of not resting, the grind of pushing for mere survival. The buried sins and sacrifices produce fresh blooming roses, each reeking of nostalgia. People chide me for naivety. Frankly, who gives a shit, I'm about to start huffing hydrazine. The clock is not stopping and the grains of sand have finally reached escape velocity.

Aerospace is a miserable experience where everything that can go wrong, but I got to tackle it head first. Red rover, red rover, send your worst over: we're coming back stronger. Is that all you got? Because I could do this all day. For the first time in a long time, we realized this was really happening. I looked out with a stiff upper lip but my eyes watered. I did nothing useful today. I breathed in, breathed out, and prepared for the next step. Florida, I'm on deck and I'm coming for you.

Let's. Fucking. Go.