I look around my room, still in disarray, still filled with many of the relics of my life here. And yet there is a sense that it is no longer mine. Gone are the clothes that were piled up on the old and unused computer chair. Gone is the giant monitor and computer that once dominated my desk. The shelves that once held my treasures from childhood sit empty, their contents now dormant in grey or plastic storage boxes.
This strange sense of disconnection seems to have permeated my last night in Toronto. I gathered with some of my closest friends for a final dinner, and at times I felt a strange sense of separation from the conversations at the table, content instead to be a silent observer. I climbed the steps up to my front door, in a strange way no longer at home, knowing that my life was now packed in 2 suitcases, a knapsack, and a laptop bag.
It is the first time I have truly felt a sadness in my leaving for Japan. The time, I am sure, will fly by. And yet I will return to a Toronto, to a Canada, to a life here that's changed forever.
It's hard not to sound melodramatic, hard not to let this odd sense of melancholy twinge my writing, hard not to sound emo. I wasn't really sure how I felt tonight until my dog Dana poked her head into my room, and just looked at me with her big dark eyes. When I called her, she plodded over and lay down at my feet, content to let me scratch her back. It is not too much of a conceit to say that my puppy knew that I was leaving. I'll confess, dogs are a weakness of mine, and I am more greatly affected by them than I would care to admit.
Be good Dana-dog...
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