Perpetual shift.

I am happiest when I write, and I find it disturbing deep down that the world makes it the bottom of my priority list. I allow that to happen. My will is weakest when it comes to enforcing my own happiness. I wonder if that's the norm with everyone?

I talked to Cat last week about heartbreak. She had one of the most devastated heartbreaks I've ever seen someone survive without slitting something and I never understood anywhere near the depth of it. I know now why a beautiful, vibrant young person would swear off anything remotely romantic for over a year.

I empathized but never fully grasped it until now. I hope my recoup time is less than that.

We have to move soon. A home nearby, I'm sure, and we should be hearing soon if it's the house my mom really wants. I'm pretty apathetic about it all. I hate moving, I hate having an empty bed, I hate packing up my precious things and hoping I'll find them again. My grandfather's World War II dog tags. His photo album from Germany and the girl he loved before my grandmother. Her butterfly pin. Trying to make sure I don't misplace them is part of all the stress that makes moving so intolerable.

I want my own house so badly. The bad plumbing, cracking walls, shitty floors of them all. I want to come home and sweat and work and make a house my home.

With a magnolia tree in the yard.

I feel like the only way to reach transcendence, even if it's temporary, is through working aggressively at making my happiness a top priority. Even if it's alone. Solace in solitude.