As the train pushed south, I began to wonder if this would be one of those decisions.
Why was I leaving? I loved London; I loved the pubs and markets, the movement and action.
I was surrounded by people stuck in the same frame of mind as me; travelers from every corner of the world, together, living above a bar, in search of something greater.
It was like living on a reality TV show without the cameras. Before there even was such a thing.
Every waking moment was a party—a desperate attempt to live each day as if it were our last. A life driven by visceral excess.
But that’s not why I was there.
Not anymore, at least.
I wasn’t doing anything I couldn’t be doing anywhere else.
I could party at home, but I could never be a stranger—I could never escape myself in a place so familiar.
Back home I had a past, in London we lived only for the present…
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