My floor is covered in the detritus of a year's worth of life: papers, books, articles of clothing. Everything has been sorted, in some sense of the word, into piles: what to keep, what to recycle, what to pack now and what to leave until the very last minute, in the hopes that the fifty pound weight limit for suitcases will not have been exceeded.

I'm moving, picking up at the end of the month and leaving a life that I probably worked harder at developing than the one I had back in America. And when I go home, what will I find there? I'm so different. I haven't talked to my friends besides scant facebook communication and intermittent e-mails that are, more often than not, left unanswered. All of my friends I've made here will go back to their lives, and I feel I will be suspended...

The onslaught of pensive, "I'm leaving!" posts has begun.