I still haven't cried.

I miss my kitty. I watched him die. I know he's gone. I know I will never scratch him behind the ears again, or hear him mewling piteously in the hallway because he has brought us toys in an effort to get us to play with him when we're asleep. I will never marvel at the thin, silky grace of the tip of his tail, or the wide spread of his large, powerful paws as he kneads on my pillow. There won't be any more funny stories about his antics with the other cats. I know all these things. I dwell on them. Yet, the tears will not come.

I have a few ideas as to why. I think one of the biggest factors is that the move is fast-approaching, and the enormity of that shift has weighed heavily on my subconscious mind. It's a good move, an exciting move, a move that is going to be good for me and Matt for many reasons. That doesn't make the physical act of packing and hauling all of our belongings to a new place any less stressful. I've packed about 3/4 of my worldly goods, which are now sitting in the hallway, and my room feels strange when I lie down to sleep. I feel accomplished for having got this much done so far, but when I look at the rest of the house, I feel overwhelmed. There are boxes and boxes and boxes, and the shoving and the sliding and the hefting and the shifting, and the cleaning after all that is done. Then more of the shoving and sliding and hefting and shifting when we get to the new place, and the cats come last, so they have furniture to hide under until they realise they're safe. I feel like hiding under the bed, myself.

Anyway, I think that, until we are done moving, I won't be able to relax enough to mourn properly, if that makes sense. Radar moved with me at least four times, and it may hit me hard when my head finally wraps around the idea that he really isn't going to be with us in our new home. What helps is that I am aware of this. I know the tears will come, but I'm not fearful of them. I know that I will feel better once I let go. It will probably happen the first time I am alone in the new place, after I have properly appointed my sanctuary and consecrated it as my own.

On a happier note, I have met someone rather amazing. Someone who makes me feel good, and with whom I feel I have much to share. We seem to have so much to say to each other that it's daunting to even know where to begin. I think we might have known each other in another life. No, really, I do. I wasn't expecting this crazy burst of NRE (New Relationship Energy), but it's quite welcome here on the cusp of winter. Significantly for me, she is ... well, a "she." I consider myself pansexual and I am attracted to all sorts of people. Traditionally, though, I have either been so intimidated by females that, if I like them, I turn into a thirteen-year-old heterosexual boy and stumble all over myself, or our personalities just don't mesh at all beyond a few common interests. This is different, and pretty much a first. We'll see where it goes. Matt is happy for me. I will write more about her later.