Song of the Day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6AAXlmMpq8U
I’ve been having this incredibly difficult time looking for a new place to live. First, I waited a little too long for any comfort in trying to look for a place to live. I put my notice to terminate my lease in April, but didn’t start looking until… uh, last weekend. Second, in the intervening time between giving my notice and not looking for a place to live, the neighbors across the way had a fist-fight, followed by a brick being launched through their dining room window when the non-resident was sent packing. In response, Godric the Kitten scrambled up the side of my face and I was covered in blood. So, time to move out of here. And I did already given my notice.
I’m working with a realtor to find a little townhouse to RENT, because purchasing a home feels, like, permanent-ish. Anyhow, the realtor has given me tons of options. Plus, I’ve been searching on Zillow AND continue to look at back-up apartments. I toured three properties this weekend, and they all seem… FINE. Just fine. There’s nothing wrong, but they don’t feel like home.
But, my current apartment doesn’t feel like home anymore. I moved here under pure duress and desperation. I chose this life, leap of faith. I became this girl I didn’t recognize, someone who didn’t plan, who wasn’t organized. I came for love, because I loved someone, and thought if I moved to where he was, he’d magically love me too. And he did. We loved each other, easier, seemingly, when I moved to an apartment without any real furniture and we spent all of our time curled into my queen-sized bed watching my old box TV and planning a future. Talking about the future seemed easier than changing the present. Thinking about the future was easier than building a future.
I’ve said it before, but it’s this recurring theme/plain reality: The future comes, with or without my consent. And it came, and none of our plans were there to greet us, not one. We were trapped in the magical thinking of being in love and holding so tightly to plans for the future, that the present just elongated for years. We didn’t do anything to ensure that the future plan became the present reality. Instead, the future came with nothing to reveal, and we both looked at each other with a tiny bit of disappointment that the other person didn’t make the future more real. I changed into a person burdened by the responsibility of a grown-up, cerebral life… and he stayed the exact same person he was the day we met. I was no longer the girl he fell in love with; he never evolved into the man I thought he’d become. And maybe, we forgot to plan for the most important thing… to love each other, to keep loving each other. Whatever happened, we didn’t break, we just dissolved. I understand now why divorce is called a “dissolution.”
So, I think the real reason why I can’t pick a new place to live is that leaving this apartment alone, by myself (sorry, Godric), choosing a new direction, feels like a failure of sorts. I came here to build a life, to build a love. I leave here, without the most important part of the story. I really wanted for him to be the love, the man, the partner, the STORY… and when I leave this apartment, I know that this story must end, once and for all.
And I know there will be other loves, there will be other stories. Sometimes, it just takes me a bit of time to close the cover…