I’ve been all over the shop.
Knotted, tangled and confused.
Looking at places to be, jobs, in town, out of town, fuck off world in the middle of nowhere places, plots for eco build, plots for a shed will do, plots for strawbale, I feel old may as well get in the retirement home now, with garden, near the sea, back to the roots, back to the marsh and the geese, without garden, with parking, in a city where I wouldn’t need to have a car, walk to work, cycle to work, work remotely, don’t work, emigrate, dig a ditch and fall in, dig a ditch next to my burial cist friend, and just lie there with p’s ashes until it’s all over.
It’s a great privilege of choice but I just want to crawl away. It all feels too much, too exhausting and I can struggle to care. All the upheaval.
It’s exhausting and work is draining the life blood.