Suitcase.

My suitcase stands in the corner. Between the blue&white marmor tiled wash stand and the light wooden closet, it stands there on the floor, empty on the inside, and today it spoke to me for the first time, it said: Four.

I looked at it harshly, and pointed out the obvious lack of necessity to remind me: I have but 4 days left in my chambre 12. On the 30th of July, the very same day as I for the first time encountered Paris one year ago, my eyes will be clouded, my bags and all my belonging will be brought down the six floors down to the first, where they will be untill mid-july. Then my bags will be packed for not to be re-opened untill I’m on solid northern ground, my eyes will be searching for a reassuring place to look, and my voice will be sending a last au revoir into the hot air vibrating on the streets in the city of lights.

Drama queen, my suitcase says. Whatever.

Cause my suitcase is standing there, like a security guard over my land of happiness, making sure I remember using the time that remains well – since I’m leaving soon. But also like a black omen, not really letting me live fully, because everything I do is the last of this and the last of that. Every minute without maximum experience is frowned upon by the suitcase, but I find myself doing less and less as I sit and just…live. The slow death towards departure makes me want to quit&run, just get it over with, accompanied by A-ha’s Dark is the night. This whole leaving-thing gives me a weird rhythm of running around seeing this&those&them, gathering memories by the dozen, just to be apathic&paralysed in the next beat– infront of my black suitcase.

But it’s a privilege, my suitcase says then. Looking forward to going back home, yet not wanting to leave this home.

Okey then. Smile.

So I leave my security guard and the troubling thoughts of leaving behind, as I head for lights by the canal St. Martin.

4 days, you know.