Lately all I do is whine about how much I hate my neighbour. I complain so much that people turn their attention elsewhere when I start talking. I don't blame them for that. I don't blame them for having more fun things to do than hear a monologue from me again. I blame myself for not having anything else in my brain. I blame myself for thinking that not being able to remember what silence sounds like is a bad thing. I blame myself for not calling the police when it becomes too much for me, and I blamed myself when my best friend told me that she was sick of telling everyone about the reason to why I'm so boring these days. Travelling four hours every time I want to go to the university is exhausting, yes, but that's not the problem. Travelling has never been a problem for me. Travelling when you haven't slept properly is hard, yes, but that's not the problem either. Leaving an apartment when you're dead tired isn't very motivating, but coming home to a place that's supposed to be your home, that's supposed to feel comforting and safe, where you're supposed to feel relaxed and you don't feel any of it... Entering the front door and become so tensed that you get a headache. Waking up in the morning because someone above you is having a conversation. Having trouble reading because someone you share a wall with wants to hear music.
I've lived here for about a year and a half. A lot of my boxes are still unpacked. I don't have any curtains up. There are still holes from the last tenant in my kitchen and my hallway.
I feel more at home back at my parents, in the house which feels tinier than it did when I lived there. With that people I couldn't wait to get away from.
It's funny. When I sit and write here now I'm actually crying and when I look around I see my furniture and stuff - I don't really see the apartment.
I think it's time to move.
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