Moving out and moving on.

Moving out isn't as emotional as I thought it would be. I am leaving a room, a flat behind which I most likely will never see from the inside again. This is a first for me. I've lived here for 2 years and there a lot of great and unique memories connected to this place. In this flat I learned I can endure a stream of ice cold water for over two minutes, I learned that if you order half ham, half ham as a pizza topping, what you actually get is half ham, half pepperoni and a series of disturbing mailbox notifications from the owner of the pizza place saying 'half ham, half ham? That doesn't make any sense!' (this happened during a memorable halloween party). I learned that sometimes appearance and self-presentation is more important than what you say or do. I learned not to leave my lasagna out while a hungry cat roams the flat. I stepped in hornets, I fell off of sofas, I slipped in showers, I hit my head, I stubbed my toe, I was either too hot or too cold but never comfortably warm. So there are a lot of great and a lot of awful memories. But why are there so little emotions upon leaving this place. 
So I stand here at 3 am ready to leave for my visa interview/home and take one last look at my empty room. Like in the movies, I turn off the lights and walk away. As I slowly lurk through the darkness of our flat I realise two things:
First, it was a bad idea turning off the lights prematurely just to set a dramatic end to a two year fairytale of flat-occupant relationship. I felt like a moviestar doing it but now it is hard to find the way to the staircase even though I found it a thousand times before. 
Secondly I realise why I'm not  as emotional as this flat deserves me to be. Thinking back, what made this flat what it was were not the rooms, not the floors, not the ceiling... Now that I really think about it, all the great memories were just great because I had beautiful people there with me when they happened. I remember Martin laughing at me, while I'm in the shower enduring a seemingly endless stream of ice cold water, Lucas breaking down in laughter after receiving a pizza from a very confused delivery guy telling us they cannot do half ham, half ham. I remember Martin teaching me about my fashion flaws (which I undoubtably had and still have to this day), I remember Eberhard enjoying half of my lasagna. I remember Theresa bringing me an ice pack for my hornet-stung foot, I remember Lucas, once again, laughing at me for falling off the sofa, I remember Martin laughing at me for accidentally banging my head against a wall, just to run into the very same wall just seconds later. I remember the topless summers and the snuggled up winters. My flatmates matter, not the flat itself. And as I'm sure that I will never see the flat again, I will see my flatmates again before I know it!

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