What's on the other side of the ocean?

In all the houses that I've lived in since moving to Singapore (save for the first, I think) we've never fully unpacked. We've never unpacked every single thing from its box and given it a shelf or a cupboard space to call home. Even back in Pasir Ris, we had stacks and stacks of albums and cook books, kept in large plastic boxes- never unpacked.
Sure we took them out now and then, and there always has to be that first boyfriend your mom will show your baby pictures to,
But it was never on a shelf that would always hold a dusty outline of it.

We were always meant to go home;
Our time in this place, a stopover.

The first time I had to pack, I packed thirteen years of my life into boxes. (Because when we first moved in, I was still little enough to warrant the unpacking of all that was me)
Everything that I'd ever known, everything that had been with me or been collected in all that time, all of it was wrapped in newspaper and put into boxes.
And so we moved, and I dealt with it. We didn't unpack all of our things though, there was never enough space for anything.

Then we moved again, and I was less sentimental as I was keen on chucking stuff. Boxes of letter from the ex, pictures or cutouts of stupid things-
They had to go.

Everything that's with us in our apartment now has been unpacked. God knows why we still actually have boxes about, but all our stuff's with us for sure.
The rest of- which is about three quarters of all that we own (possibly more) is in storage somewhere in Woodlands.
And yes, it is as out in the sticks as it sounds.

We're moving again.

Of course, I've known this for a long time now. I've been the one bugging us to get off our asses, ever since we decided to buy a place a year back.
But going about looking, sorta makes things more real I suppose.

On one hand, I am happy.
I could do without my toilet door attacking me every so often and having a swimming pool in our kitchen every time we do laundry.
But I am tired.
I am tired because the one thing left on my mind is-
When is this going to stop?
When is this, all this moving going to fucking end?

We've always supposed to have been going back home, and when we weren't, we were supposed to be joining family in the States.
But we haven't as yet, and meanwhile, we have moved so many fucking times.
Packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking.

And in this time,
We've lived some kind of half-life. (I'm pretty sure I've said this before.)

Y'know, there'd have been a world of difference if someone had just decided that,
Sod all,
We're bloody staying put here.

No, I can't say I'd jump around in excitement. But at least there would've been just one, solid thing.

I would never ask anyone to move with or for me.
I might ask if they'd like to, but I would never have a place picked out, a life cut out and say, "come."
I couldn't.

And at the same time, maybe that's why I've always wanted to have kids early.
Because before I have them, I'd pick a place, plant myself there,
And I will not move for the longest time.
Not because I hate moving.

But because in all my life,
I've just always needed something more than a concept to hold on to.

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