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The Move

It took me a year since I decided that I should find myself a place and some six months since I realised I actually can afford it. It took four months of active searching and two months of viewing various places. It took me two weeks of being absolutely freaked out by the perspective of moving on my own.

And I have moved.

The place is bigger and brighter and nicer than I remembered from the viewing. How did this happen - I have no clue. I usually would make a tiny sketch and take measurements, but this time I just came in, had a chat with the landlord and felt just very comfortable, so I took the place without looking at it very carefully. I told my previous landlord that I'm bailing on him and started packing. I felt strangely anxious, since it's the first time I would be living entirely on my own, and I was constantly worried that something (or rather everything) will go wrong.

A week and a half later I had the lease signed and deposit transferred. A few days after that I was thanking the previous landlord, handing over the keys and getting back my deposit and references. All done, no turning back.

Once I had all the bags and boxes in the apartment, I convinced my generous friend to drive me to Woodies for plants and then finally, I sat down in my new apartment around five o'clock, with all the boxes, a Ficus Benjamina, and a Monstera Deliciosa, three jars of handmade candies, a bottle of wine, absolutely famished and exhausted, realising I haven't eaten since Saturday afternoon and that I have to unpack it all and that my partner is in bloody southern France and I'm all alone.

I decided to go to the village for a dinner and it instantly cheered me up. The restaurant I really like was just 10 minutes away, so I popped in, got my favourite table, ordered my favourite dish and finished it off with a bowl of ice cream so big, that I couldn't eat it all.

Then I came home, switched on the heating, unpacked, decanted the wine, switched on my laptop and played some music. Suddenly, the reality hit me: I was there, in the perfectly located apartment, of perfect size, with gigantic windows, two fireplaces, lots of storage, great shower, nice kitchen and it didn't cost an arm and leg and it's mine, and it's close to work, and close to pubs and restaurants and shops, and my partner is going to love it and I can have my friends or my sisters or my mum over and it's all going to be ok. I laughed to myself, relieved and finally just plain happy. Life is good again.

I had a glass of wine and called my grand aunt and I spent over an hour on the phone, talking about food, vitamins, photos of Ireland I sent her, faith and Father Pio and what would Freud think about my dreams. The candles on the fireplace spread a nice cinnamon scent, there were Simpsons on TV. A bottle of wine later I sneaked into the bedroom, all happy and settled in and slept like a log.

When I woke up next day morning and I was still there. And everything was still perfect.

Can anyone explain to me why did I wait this long and why on earth I was so scared? I should've done it a long time ago.

I think, this is true, the perfect time never comes, it's created. As Romans said, fortune favours the brave, so the moment I let go and plunged despite my fears, the moment the perfect place appeared.

Perhaps change comes not when you wish for it, but when you're ready to embrace it?

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