Er, where was I?
It’s a weird sensation when not feeling at home in your own city leads to not feeling at home in your own flat, in your own skin, in your own head. Not even at home in your own frequently changeable moods.
I apologise for any offence caused in linking the recent events in London so closely to me and my personal neuroses and hang-ups. But this is my site, Me, me, me. And isn’t the political supposed to be all about the personal? Or something.
I’ve become one of those commuters staring at other people suspiciously from over the top of my book. I’m not reading, you know.
Unless I am reading. Then I become so immersed in the pages in front of me that I miss stations. Whoosh. What was that passing me by? Oh, just my change to the Northern Line.
Words don’t make sense either. In fact, the only words that really have any effect on me at the moment are those that I write to one other person who is far, far away from here. We’ve got a bond, apparently.
I’m not sure what I miss, but I think the extra hour I’ve gained every week might have something to do with it. I’ve become a little lost about where to throw my thoughts, and I vacillate between leaving them everywhere and leaving them nowhere.
Paddington station, Saturday: I bought myself a new notebook.