I’ve had the weirdest weekend. No. Wait. What I mean is… I’m having the weirdest life.
I’m having the weirdest life where it feels like everything is moving just too. Goddamn. Fast. I’ve been in London ten minutes, and apparently already have a gorgeous home, a job, and beautiful, engaging people around me who say encouraging words when I do incredibly silly things like, ohIdon’tknow, SPEND MY LAST DIME ON A PLANE TICKET TO NEW YORK.
Yup. That happened.
Oh, Internet. It might have all started with that open lust letter, which makes me cringe to think about because I am not fourteen years old, and yet it seems the only way I deal with my feeeeeeelings is to write about them on the Internet.
See also: this stream of consciousness too.
To which my brother was all, urm, you say really weird stuff sometimes.
So, then I started to think about all the other amazing people I am terrified of losing, because they are strewn all across the globe, and that letter was designed with all that in mind- that there are things I’ve experienced that have irrevocably changed me to the point where in my imagination they are mythicized. I talk and talk about them til they seem like make believe.
I don’t wanna make believe. I’m greedy- I want it all to be real.
The letter lead to All The Thoughts, wherein I decided, HEY. I’LL GO TO WHERE THIS BOY LIVES AND LOOK HIM IN THE EYE TO TELL HIM HOW I FEEL BECAUSE THEN THAT WILL MAKE IT AS REAL AS IT CAN GET.
How I feel? How I felt. Still feel.
I don’t know.
It’s all largely irrelevant because no sooner was I hyperventilating on the phone to Calum- this is dumb, isn’t it? Am I being dumb? I’m flying to New York in five days- FIVE!- like I’m in a Meg Ryan film, I’m so dumb- I was being asked to stay behind at a breakfast meeting at my internship, and being offered a full-time position.
Yay! I thought to myself. Job security and guaranteed food on the table! They like me! They really like me! Now I can actually afford to go to New York!
Of course then, on the very day I officially started I got an email from somebody very important, asking to see my manuscript.
And I think all of these things are brilliant. But to happen within the space of six days, where I also had to say goodbye to my best friend for an unspecified amount of time, is a lot to process. I'm in this complex mental tailspin of my own making wherein I have reassess All The Things to decide is this it? Is this what I want? Or this?
It feels a bit like I’m at the gelateria, and there is Raspberry and White Chocolate. And Nutella. But also, there’s Cinnamon. And they have Sour Raspberry too. And, and, and… can I have them all? Or do I have to choose? How do I choose? Will they all fit in one extra-large cup? Or will that make me throw up and so I will have wasted them all?
It feels like if I look in the wrong direction for even just a half second, everything will be lost because it was all too much in the first place.
And who even thinks that way? Who has so many blessings that instead and jumping up and down for unadulterated joy just… stops. Stops it all. Stands still and tries not to cry?
This girl. I know, boo-fucking-hoo for me.
On Saturday night I slept for less than two hours. I lay looking at the ceiling, and decided, fuck it. I’ll move back to Rome. I’ll live in my little picturesque apartment where they take my photo when I do laundry, and I’ll teach cute kids, and I’ll go to the same café every morning and eat three breakfasts and write about my vagina and I’ll eat all the rice balls I want because I can.
I hated Rome, and yet where do I mentally take myself when I feel overwhelmed? The eternal city.
And obviously that’s because I know Rome. I could slip back into a life that was predictable and planned, and just the right side of international jet setter. Unlike London. London knows this is balls to the wall time, and is offering me all the metaphorical gelato flavours in the world. Here it’s so great and special and inspiring that instead of believing in myself enough to step up to the plate and say LET’S BOOGEY, WORLD, I just want to hide under my duvet, alone, and not have to think about anything ever again because... well, why? Why am I so petrified?
I’m looking my most deep-rooted and desired dreams right in the sodding eye like a clichéd deer in the metaphorical headlights: I can fight, flight, or freeze.
And even that decision feels like too much to handle.