These days I’ve been quite upset searching for an apartment yet making not a bit of progress. When all I want is merely an affordable and not-that-unbearable place to live in but it seems so dim, the realization that I have been, am being and will always be an externality in this city simply shouts itself out. And I’m more than reluctant to plea for help, and I don’t wanna give in an inch, and I hate myself for being so annoyingly stubborn.
Still, I have very strong incentive to get the hell through this painful process, that being, the eagerness to arrive at the next episode of life. I suppose moving (and moving in together) should fall into the definition of “a new episode of life,” however an uneasy one it may be. It could be I expect so much from the future, it could also be I’m just fed up with the present, it could actually be both. But why bother digging into the details, when life will find a way to force itself forward after all.
What really concerns me is, can flipping over pages after pages of life be the solution of life itself? I understand vaguely but well enough that it doesn’t really work this way, I just can’t help wanting so much to paging into the next chapter of life while leaving this one behind. Technically speaking, it’s not the content, but the route/direction of life that I actually do give a damn about. Let tomorrow land safe, let yesterday never reoccur. As to today, well, as long as I still survive, let it just be what it ought to be. Here we get to it again: life is elsewhere. It sounds hopelessly sweet, but else? where?
A clean, well-lighted place. 