One day off a week, and I have no idea what to do with it. In a way I wish I was new to this city, then I'd feel obliged to explore it instead of having this pervasive feeling of apathy. Wanderlust, too. Wishing I'd chosen another path, there were two choices back in January - a job in London and one in Goa, India. I chose London because it was familiar and because I had planned to move to India with my family...around now actually, June, we were due to leave Cambodia and start afresh. She was so excited, we'd been on holiday there a year ago, loved the chaos, the press of people, the noise, the heat, the colours. Mostly loved her being happy. And now, here, looking out at rain-soaked grey buildings I can't remember why I turned it down. Fear, obviously. Afraid of falling to pieces dramatically and being unable to cope, of letting my friend down and ruining his new business, of moving alone to a new country - even though I've done it before, frequently. But there's a stark difference between being alone and being bereft.
Maybe tomorrow I'll write a resignation letter. Imagine being on a plane next week, packing up the shabby old kit bags that have survived so many ridiculous adventures and just leaving. Locking up all the memories of them in this flat and taking myself off, away, somewhere warm and bright and spend my days working on something that matters. There's a space for me there, already planned and waiting. Space for three, and I'd still feel bereft, of course. I know from bitter experience that there's no way to outrun myself, however hard I try. But maybe a purpose? A new language to learn, new children to teach, living with friends, maybe it would work. Soothe the raw ache in my chest somehow. Maybe it would hurt more, finding myself once again on a long-haul flight, turned away into the window and wondering what the fuck happened. Maybe it would recall too strongly the flight home in January, a stark reminder of explaining to the check-in girl why there was only one passenger instead of three. Of crowding myself into the airplane bathroom, kneeling, almost a month since I lost them and finally, finally wracked with sobs so harsh my lips cracked and bled, burnt with acid when the wrenching made me vomit. Keening, curled and spent on the tiny floorspace. Harsh, acrid misery, white knuckles gripping the sink, shaking, not recognizing the dark-eyed, gaunt man in the mirror. Returning to my seat, one of a bank of three. Two of them empty.
Maybe tomorrow I'll write a resignation letter. Imagine being on a plane next week, packing up the shabby old kit bags that have survived so many ridiculous adventures and just leaving. Locking up all the memories of them in this flat and taking myself off, away, somewhere warm and bright and spend my days working on something that matters. There's a space for me there, already planned and waiting. Space for three, and I'd still feel bereft, of course. I know from bitter experience that there's no way to outrun myself, however hard I try. But maybe a purpose? A new language to learn, new children to teach, living with friends, maybe it would work. Soothe the raw ache in my chest somehow. Maybe it would hurt more, finding myself once again on a long-haul flight, turned away into the window and wondering what the fuck happened. Maybe it would recall too strongly the flight home in January, a stark reminder of explaining to the check-in girl why there was only one passenger instead of three. Of crowding myself into the airplane bathroom, kneeling, almost a month since I lost them and finally, finally wracked with sobs so harsh my lips cracked and bled, burnt with acid when the wrenching made me vomit. Keening, curled and spent on the tiny floorspace. Harsh, acrid misery, white knuckles gripping the sink, shaking, not recognizing the dark-eyed, gaunt man in the mirror. Returning to my seat, one of a bank of three. Two of them empty.
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