Moving Diaries

“What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

We moved. Again.
And although the word usually carries a certain weariness, this time it arrived with a different kind of light—almost like a quiet reward life hands you after years of effort. We left behind a house where we lived for more than three years, a house that taught us routines, fears, and joys, but that no longer felt like our place. Fate— that old companion who sometimes guides and sometimes pushes—led us to a better home: a house near the mountains, surrounded by trees that hold ancient secrets, and a stillness that settles over the days like fresh snow.

We finally arrived at a home where laughter is louder in the kitchen,
where every arrival turns into an embrace,
and where the space itself seems to tell us, “You were meant to be here.”

It had been a long time since I last moved, though I must admit I’m an unwilling expert in this craft that mixes boxes, nostalgia, and new beginnings. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve changed houses; I only know it’s been many, enough that anyone would think I’d be used to it by now. But no. Every move has its own edge, its own particular exhaustion, a small trembling of the soul.

This time, indolence took hold of me longer than I wanted. But there was no choice: I had to do it. I had to empty closets, wrap books, move furniture that always weighs more than the memories attached to it, take down pictures that felt like pieces of the wall itself. And then, once in the new house, came that strange, silent ritual we all go through: discarding, opening, recognizing, discovering.

Because during a move you find what you stopped seeing but never stopped being.
You find projects that never came to life.
Pieces of yourself that were paused, waiting.

And it was while unpacking that I discovered the absurd—and somehow necessary—amount of notebooks I own. A mountain of unorganized thoughts. I always buy a new notebook even when I don’t need one. It’s desire that does it: that quiet fire of wanting to write at any moment, in any corner, in any way. I’ve always loved writing by hand, because on paper thought has weight, texture, and skin. Later I type it, yes, but the first spark is always ink.

That’s why the accumulation.
Because every notebook is a possibility.
Because every blank page is a promise.

And maybe—just maybe—somewhere in that pile of things I didn’t even know existed, buried between moves and silences, lies the true beginning of something big. Perhaps I already wrote, without realizing it, the line that will turn my dream of living through my words into reality. Maybe it’s there, pressed between so many unfinished desires, waiting for me to find it, read it, recognize it.

Moves have that kind of magic: they give you back what you had forgotten was yours.
And sometimes, between open boxes and winter light, you remember that you are already closer to what you’ve been chasing your whole life.