I accomplished quite a bit today toward my housing search. I was aware of thinking, when I hung up from the last phone call to schedule my seventh or so viewing, that I ought to feel good. I waited for the good feeling to come. But, truth be told, instead of a great sense of accomplishment or hope, I felt scared and insecure.
I wish there was some way of knowing with absolute certainty that I am making the right choices. I do not like having to rely on trust and faith. It makes me uncomfortable. It isn’t trust or faith in circumstances or in life events that I am asking of myself. It is trust and faith in my ability to navigate what happens next that I am trying to muster. I don’t have very much of it. I hope that what I do have is enough.
I do know that I will be okay. Or, at least, some part of me does. Even at this late hour, even with my eyes halfway closed and my mind along with them, when I tend to get even more despondent, I still know this. I will be okay, no matter what.
I would very much like, some day, to be happier. More regularly happy. Or more obviously so. I think this is where the fear comes into play. I don’t want to just be okay anymore. I want something better than that. It’s possible that what I wish for myself isn’t something that can ever be real. It’s possible that I already have it to the extent that I’m ever going to. It’s even possible that I don’t really appreciate what it is I do already have because my eyes are always seeking forward for something different, something more. None of this stops me wanting it.
I want to live my own fairytale. And, I probably already am.