I’m not going to write paragraphs and paragraphs about how sorry I am that I haven’t written in ages. To be honest, I am not sorry. This is because, literally, I was too busy living to write during the last couple of months. To sum it all up:
- Me and my bf bought a new house.
- We re-painted said house, re-arranged the electricity and plumbing. Fought with said plumbers and electricians over issues, problems, mismanagement and parts to be bought and exchanged.
- We bought furniture, fought with furniture stores when the orders did not turn up, ran after stores when furniture turned up with missing parts, arranged the furniture to our liking.
- We spent money and wailed about it.
- Finally we packed all our stuff and moved in, discovering more problems as we went along.
- After all this, breathless and wrung-out, we went on a ten-day holiday trip to Wales (which was splendid btw) BUT
- Left us completely tired-out again. After which we
- Re-started chasing more stores about more furniture… realizing that for the next year or so, this would be an ongoing thing… *sigh*
And more or less, that’s it.
Much more ‘more’ than ‘less’ really lol.
Anyways, totally went off writing for a bit. Strange as that may sound. I was to tired. Too colourless. Too weak. Etc.
So here we are. I promised not to write paragraphs about why I haven’t written lately, and yet I did. Kind of. Hehe.
BUT when I find myself cozily sipping some tea on my new L-shaped sofa in front of our new 55″ screen TV, watching ‘Downton Abbey’ while my one and only hugs and tugs at me playfully (and no I’m not talking about my dog here lol), seriously, I ask myself, ‘Could it get any better?’ And the answer is totally NO, it can’t.
I just hope nothing happens to spoil this. I’m finally happy, blissfully and exceptionally so. And in that moment of realization, a tiny kernel of terror always spirals in my stomach, telling me that once everything is perfect, the only direction one can go is down, and that it won’t last.
Is it my emotional scars tugging at me once more? Or just, a feeling propheticizing some immentionable doom? Thing is, if I continue to be afraid that I will loose this, I will never really enjoy it. Never savour the moment. Never fully taste my dreams coming true. I try to let it go.
And yet, I can’t.