The Poet Swift

Life happens quickly.
Events conspire, and grow overnight like a damp petri dish.

The Decemberists are playing in Seattle in (ha-ha) December. I desperately want to go, but current financial forecasts tell of a hard winter ahead.

So that thing that I didn't mention in the previous, previous entry? Yeah, you're going to hear it now.

I'm moving out.

The Boy and I are still together. Stitched together, roughly and in good need of a proper seamstress -- but I really think that leaving will solve everything. I think we'll be better if we're apart for a while... it'll force us to take time with each other instead of co-existing. I think moving out is exactly what I need.

(I wish I could commit to that last sentence with a full heart. I know the truth of its words, at least, my mind does. I blame astrology for my indecision. It seems like a great idea seeing as I have no idea how I would fare independently in the world. I think I need this before I become to old to enjoy being poor.)

Neo already knew, before I told The Boy. I don't want this household to fall apart, I love living next to the cheesy-sounding Swan Lake. I love having a backyard, a decent neighbourhood. I love being close to work and en-route to school.

But there's this totally other part of me that wants to be free, live in a grungy apartment with K.L. and walk downtown every day for coffee. To be close to the vital organs of this amazing city that I've come to call home. To be closer to the artistic spirit inside me that keeps begging for a place to let loose. I think to do that I need to get out of this cycle, to stop caring about domestic life and start enjoying creative strife.