Conflict of interests

So right now, I'm actually contemplating the appealing nature of both a short term let in an amazing sounding house, and a long term let with two nice sounding girls.Part of me is completely thrilled with the impermanence of a three month let, a sort yourslef out out, make plans, short burst of time which could feel like a holiday. What can you do in the time? How could you use this time to create something, whether it's a product, an idea, a feeling. A plan. Could it be really exciting and fresh, and the oppossite of domestic?

That's what Ir ea;l;y felt free about when I was away. I packed an excellent bag of perfect essentials which could have seen me through another 2 months of life. I had what I needed, and only 3 objects I didn't use out of about 50. I felt efficient and light, and satisfied that I carried with me all I wanted for appearance and entertainment. I didn't begrudge any object, wish I hadn't brought it, wish to send it home. I felt light and transient but mostly essential. Now I feel heavy.

I am back in the flat and objects gape out at me. REMEMBER ME. A sign from the past, a sign of your domesticity, your fake future, an imagining of a kitchen full of these ceramics which fill in the gaps. They sat in boxes for a year, waiting for their cupboards, but now the future is turned upside they have no purpose. They don't look beautiful and they don't work well. They are mashed, collected versions of a cossetted existence that is now void. They are souvenirs.

But I still am attached to them somehow. Boxing them up for a car boot sale, I wonder of a new house which collects Cadbury's bits, and how "I used to have some of those!" but I gave them away for my new existence, they didn't fit, or I skimmed where I shouldn't have. How many teapots do I need? Do things mean more if I found them, or if they were gifts? Does my broken, now severely impeded teapot go to the bin? Will I ever think about her if I don't use the teapot ever again? Am I even thinking about her when I burn my fingers on the stupid handle-less thing, or just how sad I feel that it fell out of the car on it's first trip outside in nearly twenty years?

A heaviness again. I cultivated a lightness away, and now it is buried under heavy clouds of indecision, confusion and cluelessness. I can feel the stress arms creeping back. Do I go for the scariest option? When I didn't know whether to steal away, it was the scariest option, the most exciting, the most unimaginable. That is the way taking a short let feels. I see him sitting on a rather orange creosoted fence, saying, moving twice in three months?? Twice?? Urgh, that sounds like a bit, you know. And then my own voice realises the argument is actually made up, my wariness is biting me. What would happen if I did the most scary thing?