I lived in London a couple years ago. I decided to move there on my own because I was a shy 23 year old who had just finished her teaching degree. I looked back on my four years of study and realized that I had wasted so much time waiting around for my life to start.
I had literally spent four years waiting for life to find me while I watched TV and ate pasta. I had come so far in life it would seem. From a young optimistic four year old making pasta necklaces, to a 23 year old woman eating pasta so often it decided to hang around (namely on her gut and thighs).
So anyway, I did the only thing I thought I could do to actively change my life. I ran away.
For everyone who cared about me, I called it an adventure, my chance to see the world. However, in reality, I was just so fucking done with my life. I needed a break from it.
I recall one particular lonely London day. I was sitting on my bed marking assessments. I was listening to Hozier on repeat because I had chosen his latest album to be my woeful theme music.
The room was so big, too big. There were too many empty spaces surrounding me. I hated it. I could feel the entire vacant space swirl around as I continued to scratch red lines onto paper I could barely read (seriously, kids, it is not that hard to separate your letters).
The walls had been covered with ugly off-white wallpaper that was peeling in places. I could see yellow stains here and there and I wondered what disgusting find I may stumble upon if I was to peel back the wallpaper completely.
I feel like people pride themselves on having so much space. It is as if you are suddenly important because you have purchased the emptiness between the distances of stuff.
In the end, it does not matter how much distance you purchase, for I had realized on that lonely London day that I would much rather be closer to things.