I think I have to move. I’ve been thinking about it pretty much ever since I moved into this apartment. Regularly I’ve tried to convince myself that I’d just start making more money and that would solve the problem. Bus alas that is a mirage. In order to make more money I’d need more time and energy, and I spend my time and energy paying for this. Or do I? Perhaps that’s a cop out, a shifty indulgence of my natural laziness and sloth.
In any case the fact remains that I seem never to have any more than I’ve got – which is typical, but let’s move a bit past that. I spend all of what I make, on food, on rent, on utilities. I feel no financial sense of progress, and while it may be argued that there really is no need for such a thing, I do find myself not doing things I would like to do simply thanks to the financial leash I have fashionned for myself. So moving is a thought.
This loft is not the loft which I had imagined. The geometry is all wrong. The advantages, 13ft ceilings, wide open spaces, are all a waste due to conflicting configuration. Why do I have tall ceilings in my kitchen? Not even the Sweedish Chef requires such soaring spaces to toss his ingredients. It simply isn’t right, never was right, and the cost, the cost…
I want a balcony, I want bright natural light for less than a figment of the day. But mostly I want to pay less, play more.
Moving is never a happy thought, being as it is nothing but a reaffirmation of deference to stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. I think the collective stuff is the only thing that really stops me. So much of it. Goddam stuff.
It is time to start looking. I at least have the luxury of making a move at the time of my choosing, not being stuck with a legislated lease with terms and dates. Still, that also could be a weakness, no deadline, no pressure, no looming end. But, as the bank account slides, maybe, maybe I could think of better things to spend it on than four white walls and neighbours having noisy sex.