I think I might have some friends in common with this Madison woman who blogs at Your Ill-Fitting Overcoat, whose blog I don't remember how I found, but which I love.

Her latest post had me going yes, yes, and I wanted to hug it/her.

I don't own real furniture. I don't put paint on the walls. I've been saying this for years and for years, but every time I think to change, something in my gut says no. I have this sense, all the time and all the time, that this is not my Real Life. I am living an Intermission Life, a Pre-Life before the main event. And at any moment, my train could arrive, you know? The one that takes me there from here. And if I get the chance to go, I don't want a thousand-dollar couch weighing me down.

This strikes me as a strange way to live.

Sometimes she posts things just as I'm thinking them. Right now I want a real bed, but I've been saying that for months and doing nothing about it except making do. With similar hesitations. But I'm not waiting for a train - I think I know which train I want and when it's coming. I just need to get myself to the station at the appointed hour. Platform 9 3/4? Maybe this metaphor has gone too far. & everything in the meantime is still Life. I just don't know if it's bed-buying Life.

Dear blog, my life is tiny butterflies with sharp teeth. How are you?