With time comes change. A little bit too much change in a small amount of time for myself. I have, in the past 6 years:
- married a beautiful French woman,
- separated from said French woman,
- acquired a heroin addiction in a desperate attempt to 'cure' my depression & anxiety,
- acquired a methadone addiction to beat said addiction (ironic, as heroin was made to cure opium addiction)
- been to prison (I was just waiting on a court date but it was still two weeks in a prison)
- moved into a hostel with other lost souls,
- left the hostel an even lost-er soul,
- taken up residence in a park where I sleep in the bushes with (sometimes) a Buddhist, and lately, a perhaps semi-crazed Swedish woman,
- worked randomly in a café as a kitchen porter,
- acquired a fondness for the habit of shoplifting which sees me lifting entire cases of wine from grocery stores not to mention Cadbury choc chip cookies................
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| my backyard... and front yard, and living room |
That sounds well and good; perhaps exciting in retrospect, but it's more or less exhausting if you're living it. These things are now all me and I'm not sure I want to be them.
I suppose it's good to write things down, because reading my own thoughts, well, now I just feel like a spoiled child. Knowing full well that if this were 10 years ago I would read this in envy... I mean, I was sitting in a darkened bedroom by myself trading punk MP3 files, living most of my life on the internet, and now I'm actually living life but complaining about it. Shows how rotten the human soul is. We are rarely happy. Soft pink turds smoldering in the sun and complaining about the tan we're getting.
There's someone screaming outside of the library right this second -- a woman -- and my first reaction is: should I go investigate it for pure entertainment purposes, or, is it just more of the same and not worth hiking the 12 meters to the door? That's an actual thought in my head! Not "Hey! that woman sounds mentally ill, perhaps I should call someone." Just: "Is that worth walking to check it out? Probably not. I can get my own mentally ill person delivered to yell at me if I stand around long enough." That is what London does to you. Or does it? Am I just a prick?
In short, I haven't the slightest clue who the fuck I am any more, and I'm not sure I care. I think... well, I don't know... maybe I'll try to shoot over to France or Belgium, because now the Tories are in full power and all I see on the horizon is more Thatcher-esque purging of the poor. And I am poor. If we're not going to fight back, there is no other choice but to abandon the place and it isn't really even my place unless you want to count some ancient blood lines as evidence of my citizenship. Unfortunately, marking "Anglo-Saxon" on a doctor's application form doesn't make you eligible for all the benefits of that society -- and perhaps I should be grateful for that. I am American, not British. Today is the first day that's made me proud.
To Europe, then? But that's like swimming into the deep end, or out much farther than you should to catch that wave... where there are no helping hands... or even a bit of sand to land your feet in should you run into danger. I don't know what the hell is out there and it's scary! Admittedly. But I left the U.S., which cares not for human beings, and I guess now I'm leaving the U.K. which has, some how, become a cheap imitation of the brutal place my own homeland now is. They've copied it and made it worse, which is terrifying. So... so?
To Europe then? First of all, to get a job. To get a ticket. To pack a smaller backpack. To stop forming relationships with crazy women.
Etc.
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