I’m running away. It’s Sunday morning, I’m on a bus with destination unknown. The past week has left me feeling lost. But lost in a very specific fashion. I’m feeling terrible, and unsure of which way comfort lies. London is less than comforting on days like this, endless and sprawling and unforgiving in it’s lack of warmth. Home is not much better, a familiar place somehow trapped in time and increasingly lacking relevance.

I’ve stopped running now. I’m standing on the terrace at Alexandra Palace, the view is pretty. The weather pleasant. I’m thinking about the conversation I had in your bed last night, thinking about the words you whispered. I know in reality I’m a stone wall on the sea front. However in my mind I’m driftwood and in that moment I drift to uncertainty. Sometimes things get too busy and I just need to ‘be’ I’m not really sure what ‘being’ is, other that some wanky bullshit explanation for finding calm on some hill in North London.

Everything that has happened will mean something. Good or bad. I’m trying not to curse the situation, and condem it to negativity. Bad things can lead you to better places. Today it led me to Alexandra Palace, to a moment of peace. So I’ll cling to the idea of new life from the ashes and find a way forward, backward or sideways.