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extra thick double cream on scones, medium week on the sci-fi channel. i'm putting on weight but that's nothing new. i spend my time thinking about life, thinking about change, thinking about how things were a year ago. it doesn't feel like me living then and it barely feels like me, living now. almost one year since we stopped talking. correction: he stopped talking. "i found myself face down in the ditch, booze on my hair, blood on my lips. a picture of you, holding a picture of me in the pocket of my blue jeans. still don't know what love means." i do love ray lamontagne, and it has nothing to do with his beard. i made some anti-artschool t-shirts the day i received a prospectus for city and guilds. i am uncertain of applying as the fees are ridiculous but being accepted will no doubt boost my confidence, the level of talent required to get in is outstanding. i've been losing hope recently, willing myself to give in to a 9-to-5 existence, but small things and rufus wainwright have saved me from submission.
a post-friday-night memory: it's 5am and i say goodbye to sarah, get off the bus at greengate and start walking home. a few seconds later, i hear a voice, "excuse me," and i turn around. "do you know how to get to stratford from here?" i give him directions, smile, and walk away, just incase he's a crazy. by chance, i glance behind me, and see him scrutinising a busmap, unsteadily. he's probably drunk, i think, and walk over, repeating my instructions and pointing to cement them. he gives me a shaky smile and a thank you, i carry on my way. i am just past balaam park when i hear a timid, "uhm, do you mind if i walk with you?" i turn around and it is him. he doesn't look like a crazy (absurdly tall, slim, conventional dark good looks) but maybe i am a crazy because i say yes. i am socially awkward but i am good in one-to-ones, if my counterpart is willing to be engaged. i say, "i hear the hint of an accent...where are you from?" knowing full well he is australian. we talk about perth, and how it is the capital of western australia and home to 75% of the state's residents (which i didn't know before then) and we talk about my cousin in melbourne, who lives with her husband and their two girls and we talk about why he is here (he wants to play american football professionally - perhaps a lie, perhaps a truth that adds to the surreal quality of this memory.) then he says, "10 days i've been here. 10 days," in a voice that echoes the voice in my head, the voice that i hear often but never use infront of people. "you must miss home?" i ask, softly, not wanting him to think i think he's a wimp, and he says, "london is the loneliest place in the world." and i think about this for a bit, think about how lonely i've been whilst living here, how lonely i've been whilst staying elsewhere and i can't help but say, "yeah, but when you're lonely you can be anywhere in the world and it's still loneliness..." which barely makes sense but he understands me. we talk some more, about missing friends and family, where we've been tonight (i, kings cross - he, camden) and then he says something about the nightbuses. i can't remember what it was but i laughed sincerely, so it must have been funny. turns out he lives right next to plaistow station, which is a bizarre coincidence that heightens my chances of bumping into his sober, un-sleepy self. we reach the end of the road and i say, "this is where i say goodbye," and i sort of don't know what to do so i walk away slowly and backwards and give him instructions to plaistow station, again. i didn't ask his name, didn't offer mine, but we wave goodbye happily and go our seperate ways. part of me wants to turn around to make sure he isn't following me home, but the stronger, perhaps naive, part of me trusts my instincts and i make it to my house alive. i walk through the door as sarah texts me to ask if i'm home. i send her a tired, nonsensical reply, briefly mentioning the stranger, then brush my teeth and am asleep five minutes later - my encounter is the last thing hovering around my brain. this isn't a romantic tale - he wasn't my type, i doubt i was his - merely an acount of two strangers passing and connecting, briefly, but connecting all the same (thank you, intoxication and exhaustion, for stripping us down.) and it's these small things, these small, random, movie-like moments that lead me into believing shit happens for a reason. that guy, he's lonely now, but i'm sure he won't be forever - he will make friends, he will settle, he may even grow to love living in london. and if not, he will return to perth and he will be happy there. we all have to go through a bit of shit in our lives and though it may seem like some of us go through a bit more than others, it's all relative, how we deal with that shit is more important than what that shit is. and we may be unhappy now, but that's not to say we will always be. change is inevitable, be it for the better or worse. and life is inevitable, too. (can you tell i am in one of those thoughtful moods? my name is quiet contemplation but hasn't it always been. i blame it on those unplaceable quotes floating around my subconscience ("there's a difference between brilliance and genius - brilliance is explainable, genius isn't") and the fact that old sondre lerche is the soundtrack to my life right now.)
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