the life is abominably the same and insufferaby different (as always). update:
we started massive, gargantuan ass of a renovation project. "we" as an all of my six housemates including me, our lethargic scaredy cat of a geriatric landlady who is extremely afraid of spending money despite being well-off but in a good natured way of someone who evidently lived in a less than suitable conditions in formative years and our master who is like my dad's age, talks in fucking riddles, made me cry twice for non-assholish reasons (my ego takes double damage from members of his social group).
the renovation we started was not a flight of fancy but three semi-emergencies (notably, bathroom tile unstuck from the wall that is about to fall on someone's head). the shit costs a lot. i am enduring a facsimile of my father in my bathroom everyday. the logistics and communication between this amount of people? not easy even when rapport is good and rapport is dowright bad with landlady (panicks if you mention numerals) and master (never tells you numerals if you ask about them directly).
as if it wasn't enough change i think i finally see a possibility to attack a very old construct, that's neither good nor bad but possibly both good and bad to my inner workings, integrity, and the like. we call shit like this "trait of character" more often than not and it's not the same as giving away a coping mechanism that stopped serving you well. shit's still usable.
that might mean that as far as existential problems go i worked through my more or less pressing matters and am left with chronic stuff. which is a thing to be proud of, certainly. but also scary af, because it means i must live my life now and i have not the faintest clue how. i just don't know.
