(no subject)
I keep moving in more and more. This place is too expensive, and we can't own a dog here, and yet, I find myself settling in more and more and more. And I keep waffling about London--living overseas needs to happen, but what if it's a mistake? What if we have to come crawling back here, him in his mid 30s and I in my early, and start over?
And then I realize that I keep getting art framed, and painting walls and buying furniture. That my actions seem to battle my words, like some part is either waiting for me to chicken out, or else cautioning me quietly that just because you think you should, doesn't mean you must. I want to be a wanderer, I want to have adventures, but I want a home, a solid ground; a longing for consistency that I lacked as a kid seems to bleed in from the edges. You can't let it go, while keeping it too--you've got to make a choice.
Maybe that's a life wasted--a life spent waiting for the choice to be made for you.