Not at home

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.