Freaking out

On Monday morning, I was freaking out.
We could blame sleep depravation. We could. It certainly was a factor.

Somewhere in the background, I'm still freaking out a bit, but have decided not to.
I have too many questions, and I'm not sure it's fair to pose them.
Do you want to see me as much as I want to see you?
That's the main issue.

Another concern is the living arrangements. Is it ok with you that I come home as often as I want to and take for granted that I'll be staying with you?
I kind of wish he had his own place. Even though I love the house.
And like his mother and father.

It's love, you see.
I'm pretty sure.
Haven't told him.

I'm worrying that my insecurity will wreck the affair.
Or, if I flip around, decide not to go home too often, make a living here, that my nonchalant attitude migth. In the desicion not to freak out, be happy and strong, there was a fear that I could cross over.

And there never is time. Never time to get around to things. The need for everyday life and sleep always takes over. Sometimes even for sex.

On the other hand, I always like what is. The things that take presedence for other things. I liked sitting up past my bedtime drinking whisky with his parents, and I like listening to music together, or talking about stuff from newspapers or family. Telling him that I told my mother that I'd told him. Seeing that it's taken completely for granted that I tell my mother about him.

And in my head, I hear his voice singing a Swedish childrens song.
In my mind, I can see us in his kitchen, with his parents, his hand across my shoulders, my hand on his thigh, his mother saying "we went to this lovely place, you should go there". The plural you, not the singular.


When it comes to the living arrangements, I think I'll just ask him. How do you want it to be - do you want me to come home when I want to and take for granted that I can stay, or do you want me to wait for an invitation.

Hopefully, I nag less than I fear I do.
It's scary, this love business.
He's lovely.