hard to believe that this weekend is the six-month anniversary of me and London. It seems cliche to make a commentary on how quickly time flies, and yet it’s probably worth noting how alien this experience still feels sometimes. I oscillate between extremes, as I tend to, of absolutely loving my lifestyle and feeling lucky to be where I am, and then also of constantly questioning whether there’s any of me still left in any of these moments. It’s true that, when removed from the people who affirm who you always thought you were, it becomes a lot easier to doubt things you thought you’d established long ago. There’s also perhaps the reality of having a full-time job, of having a bathtub to clean, of having a lunch to prepare. I am scared by the fact that I’ve had so few moments that have urged me to write, to use words as a conduit for passion and expression and release. Wherever that came from before feels like a reservoir that’s dried up, or maybe bulldozed over by Excel spreadsheets ad e-mail signatures and fatigue. It’s not helpful, thinking of any of this as a sacrifice, but sometimes it sure feels that way. This city and I are in limbo, and it’s raining and my tea’s gone cold.