the pineaway

...

they say you can never go back home, but here i am. too tired to even feel like a loser for moving back home at 31. nothing seems real at the moment, not the teetering towers of cardboard boxes, nor the notions of not being able to go 'home' anymore... meaning my little apartment, which was so light and airy and sunshiny on the day of leaving that i cried and cried while checking all the cupboards and closets for the last time. that place did see me in tears quite a lot, i had my best year ever in there but also the worst ones of my life so far. it was necessary to move away, and luckily the bathroom was filled with cigarette smoke from next door on the last night, reminding me of that fact. still, it was tough to put down the keys and shut the door behind me.

i've been wishing for a small countryhouse to become available by this same road, closer to town, which has been luridly wishful thinking. only now such a house is on the market, and for cheap too. it's perfect, and i can't stand it, because i have no way of getting enough money to buy it soon enough, a house like that will go in the blink of an eye. the timing of it appearing just seems so fateful somehow... like it ought to become my home. it's what i need. and as usual, it's also what i can't have. not without miracles at least.


but if i do find 50 thousand euros under my pillow tomorrow morning, i will buy that little house, paint it white and the trimmings dove grey, the door dark red. i'll fill the little yard with white flowers and chicken of all colours. and i'll become sickeningly content and never complain about anything again, just blog about the renovations in my beautiful little house and all the omelettes, meringues and pancakes i'll be making. i promise.