So. It seems like, I’m going to move. Like in, going to live on my own again.
Quite faster than expected I came aware of a small appartment. I heard. Within a few hours I saw it. Within a day I had to decide. And now the contract is almost ready. And the keys. And the moment to pay.
I’ll move into the city. The first two months alone. Then my love will come – something that gives me a peace of mind, because together things are easier and there is someone to stop my worries and feelings of super-insecurity. Or maybe it’s that I’m anxious. Could be. I am not sure of anything anymore.
I am worried. Worried if I can really afford this. It’s not cheap, but I should be able to afford it. It’s just a big risk, somehow. And – Can I really live in the city – a place where every inch or centimeter seems to count, and a lot of people want to be (how can there, be place for me?). I just want space, peace, a place where I can be….not the place where everyone wants to be or fight for. Will I not become a total recluse? Fall in to the gaps of loneliness and depression?
Yet I know it will be allright, I mean love will move in with me in just a few months. Together we will manage. She keeps me on track. Life is nicer with her around. Like really, it makes sense and I worry less. I’m motivated more. Alone, it doesn’t matter at all.
But a place where you live. It’s so important to me. A place where you can withdraw from the world, that’s really yours, and where you can be yourself. But what if you can’t get used to it, or it doesn’t feel right in the end? Because in the end it’s not really really yours. Does it matter, I ask myself? Does it really, really matter?
This move is the right one to make. I know it’s the right thing to do. Yet I don’t understand why it feels so … I don’t know. I can’t be happy yet. All I can think of is how difficult it is to lead a life, and try to lead a normal one. It’s heavy. No more, no less.