Back and forth, again and again.

My house has three bedrooms.  The master is where I sleep, of course. Of the other two bedrooms, one has black carpeting, the other, beige.  The former was my ex's music studio, while the latter was my study.

When he moved out the first time in the fall of 2006, I moved my study into the black room. It's the larger of the two, although not by much. Plus I like the black carpeting with my white bookcases and black metal and glass desk.  The smaller room became a guest bedroom.

Five months later, my ex moved back in. So my study and I retreated to the smaller room so he could have the black room for his bedroom.

Now he's left for good and the migration has started yet again.

It may not sound like a big deal, but let me explain. There are three bookcases attached to one another; combined they are six feet tall and nine feet wide. Filled with hundreds and hundreds of books and CDs. (I collect gay-themed fiction and could start my own library. Most of the CDs have been ripped into iTunes, but I can't bring myself to get rid of the hard media.)  The closet has two more bookcases filled with files and assorted crap.  The desk is the least of the challenge, as it is in three pieces and not overly burdened with stuff.

So let's just say that this is a project.  The last two times I did it, I had help. But I'm flyin' solo now. I have to get it done because Martin arrives in two weeks, so the guest room has to be restored.

This swapping of rooms is a metaphor for my state of mind these past few days.  I'm missing John terribly and I keep second guessing my decision to leave. Was I taking my reasons for breaking up and blowing them way out of proportion? Did I overlook all that was good great? 

Despite having relationship experience after being with Mike for 17 years, he was my first and only LTR. Do I really know what makes a good partnership? 

Am I a fool?

Even though moving books and bookcases is a bitch of a chore, it's nothing like what's going through my mind.