Chicken

I chickened out.
Becoming a landowner shall remain a dream I guess. From this moment on Clinamen22 is defined as the imaginary dwelling place where Clinamen23 is produced.
As much as I intended to buy my own house, my financial conditions gave me only very few possibilities. The house in Mouscron I intended to buy had only one positive point: the fact that I could allow myself to buy it. Barely. As a location in a city, in region I do not know, far away both from my current social circle and my current job, with the prospectives of surviving a hard winter with my cats, in a house without gas nor water, hoping that my furniture and books survive the cold and moistness, and with my hopeless inability to connect to money and material possession, with me having no money put aside, I only kept it going because of my chronical stubborness.
Every day last week I got new information concerning extra expenses to manage to make that house liveable - just the basics, no finishing. Finally an expert from the mortgage agency phoned me mentioning a prize much higher than what I can afford to lent. I should have needed about 9000 euros in two years time, above the mortgage, to pay for all expenses. Seems that's a lot more than I thought in my naivity in buying and renovating a building.
I've called the whole shit off. I guess I haven't slept much since the beginning of August when I signed the first papers. I feel like a Leviathan coming off my shoulders.

Now it's back to square one, about 40 days left to find something to rent. And a probable rest-of-life of renting and licking landlord's boots. Maybe?