I have been living in London for around 3 months now. During that time, I have experienced a host of highs and lows of many different varieties. Suffice it to say that the narrative I had expected to live through has not come to pass. The realisation is as humbling as it is disappointing.
My feelings about London are much stronger than my thoughts about it. My thoughts about it are inorganic, largely factual. There is nothing inherently bad about London and there is a ton of good. There isn’t much point in me explaining my thoughts about this place. It is like most places in England, except on a much larger scale.
How I feel about London is a different matter. How it has made me feel is difficult to answer, because I’m uncertain how much of my mental state is due to my own doing, due to others, or is simply down to this unique environment. But how I feel about it right now is easier to determine. I feel as though I exist in the centre of a great void filled with millions upon millions of lost souls.
Of course, it sounds like I’m being dramatic, armed with cliches. I wonder how many people do not express their views through fear of being called dramatic, their choice of words filled with cliches? Of course, I am being dramatic, and my everyday language is imbued with cliches.
I feel as if London is swallowing me, and I am about to slip down into its deepest depths. I don’t say this because I’m overtly sad or anxious. This seems a much deeper feeling than anything on the surface. I feel as if I’m becoming lost, lonely in a crowd of thousands.
This state of mind has been good for one thing, though. I feel inspired to write. I believe the fiction I’ve been writing is good. But we will have to wait and see how that pans out.
Davey Cobb 