It's past 3.30 am in the land of the Thames, and I find myself with some miraculous internet time in my hands. Not quite awake exactly, but the temptation to resist is great. And I promised I would rant about something at some point, so well, killing birds in pairs isn't bad, and being half asleep on the keyboard might make it more interesting. You've been warned.
So, three weeks have passed since I set foot in London again. Three weeks already.
This time around I know the city, the buses, the atmosphere. I know where to buy French Fancies and where I'm going to find the yummiest Chicken Bakes at Gregg's. I know that I shouldn't take the tube as much as I do in order to save some pennies, and I also know which Costa is better than the others. I know my school and my teachers, a bit better than I expected to in some cases, and I also know that Henry Pordes, apparently, will always have whatever literary piece I fancy at the moment and I love them for that.
It would all be great if not for another little bit of knowledge. For I also know, with a certainty that makes me extremely uneasy, that I am exactly where I should be.
Sounds terribly poetic, doesn't it? Thankfully those of you who've known me forever are quite aware that I'm not one for embellishing things, nor have the ability to do so if inclined. It's all about facts, actually. It took me four months to accept the fact that I was back in Spain and to stop being grumpy and downright unpleasant at the mention of lists of reasons that should make me ecstatic about coming back home.
It took me less than 24h to become a Londoner again. I might truly be the least Spanish Spaniard after all.
Was it necessary for me to come back? Maybe not. Actually, not. It wasn't necessary at all, as in, staying in Spain didn't represent a threat to my vital functions. However, technically speaking, only eating/drinking (and their reversed processes), breathing and sleeping are necessary. But that's not living, is it? That's existing. And no person should exist.
Sooo, here I am, surrounded by English books and non-done homework -or home entertainment, as my principal would say-, sadly counting the scarce weeks left until my exam. On my birthday, to be accurate.
On the bright side...ah, the bright side. I've been going out much more than I thought I would, thanks in no small part to the least expected, but fantastic and highly entertaining, pub-buddy I imagined I would find. I'm enjoying being in class again, so much that I wish I could go five days a week instead of just three. I'm taking the tube and walking back home at midnight, not completely happy about it, and with help sometimes, but still. I'm living in the most beautiful room I've ever had with an even more fantastic family than the one I had last year, and I was sure that that wasn't possible.
I know that some thinking must be done. Scary, life-altering thinking. But if you want naked honesty, it'll have to wait. Because, right now, I'm also the happiest I've been since leaving England last December, despite everything else. Maybe it's a horrible thing to say, I'm sure it is, and I will probably burn in some hell or another. But as Serrat beautifully put it, the truth is never sad (or evil,for that matter); it just has no remedy.
Ah, turmoil in the horizon, how I love you.
Hope you had enough rant to stop the complaining about my silence, by the way... ;)
Love and many cyberhugs,
So, three weeks have passed since I set foot in London again. Three weeks already.
This time around I know the city, the buses, the atmosphere. I know where to buy French Fancies and where I'm going to find the yummiest Chicken Bakes at Gregg's. I know that I shouldn't take the tube as much as I do in order to save some pennies, and I also know which Costa is better than the others. I know my school and my teachers, a bit better than I expected to in some cases, and I also know that Henry Pordes, apparently, will always have whatever literary piece I fancy at the moment and I love them for that.
It would all be great if not for another little bit of knowledge. For I also know, with a certainty that makes me extremely uneasy, that I am exactly where I should be.
Sounds terribly poetic, doesn't it? Thankfully those of you who've known me forever are quite aware that I'm not one for embellishing things, nor have the ability to do so if inclined. It's all about facts, actually. It took me four months to accept the fact that I was back in Spain and to stop being grumpy and downright unpleasant at the mention of lists of reasons that should make me ecstatic about coming back home.
It took me less than 24h to become a Londoner again. I might truly be the least Spanish Spaniard after all.
Was it necessary for me to come back? Maybe not. Actually, not. It wasn't necessary at all, as in, staying in Spain didn't represent a threat to my vital functions. However, technically speaking, only eating/drinking (and their reversed processes), breathing and sleeping are necessary. But that's not living, is it? That's existing. And no person should exist.
Sooo, here I am, surrounded by English books and non-done homework -or home entertainment, as my principal would say-, sadly counting the scarce weeks left until my exam. On my birthday, to be accurate.
On the bright side...ah, the bright side. I've been going out much more than I thought I would, thanks in no small part to the least expected, but fantastic and highly entertaining, pub-buddy I imagined I would find. I'm enjoying being in class again, so much that I wish I could go five days a week instead of just three. I'm taking the tube and walking back home at midnight, not completely happy about it, and with help sometimes, but still. I'm living in the most beautiful room I've ever had with an even more fantastic family than the one I had last year, and I was sure that that wasn't possible.
I know that some thinking must be done. Scary, life-altering thinking. But if you want naked honesty, it'll have to wait. Because, right now, I'm also the happiest I've been since leaving England last December, despite everything else. Maybe it's a horrible thing to say, I'm sure it is, and I will probably burn in some hell or another. But as Serrat beautifully put it, the truth is never sad (or evil,for that matter); it just has no remedy.
Ah, turmoil in the horizon, how I love you.
Hope you had enough rant to stop the complaining about my silence, by the way... ;)
Love and many cyberhugs,
x
PD: They day is dawning, on a London Sunday morniiing...
PD: They day is dawning, on a London Sunday morniiing...
