Question, answer, answer, answer.

What am I doing with my life?

When I first moved to London, it was so new.

Amanda and I would walk through M&S making fun of the wording on food packages. The caterpillar cakes. The word Bloke.

I thought people might like me more because I was American.

I didn’t know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Will I ever leave London?

I remember my first trip back to the US after moving to London.

As the plane began to move, I imagined how I would feel if I was leaving London for good — if I was kicked out, or if my program was over.

I started to cry.

Why has my love for London faded?

Now it’s been so many years since I arrived to London that I was 22 when I got to London.

It’s not London that’s changed — I’m the friend who hasn’t moved away from London.

I remember being asked what I missed most about being away from home, and I’d mention the small things — the small weekends at home or with friends from college. Getting to meet up because it’s someone’s birthday. Pita chips. Now I miss even the big things — road trips I’ve never taken out west, lives I’ve never lived in Chicago and Portland and San Fransisco. Working at a bar in between jobs. Permanent furniture.

What does it mean to leave a place?

Does leaving make me afraid?

If I leave, will I ever come back?

Why is it so hard to appreciate what we’ve had for so long? Why do we put ourselves down so much for not being able to appreciate what we’ve had for so long?

It’s only natural that interest eventually fades in even the most exciting things. If only we were smart, we’d plan our lives from the worst to the best thing, so each move wasn’t just away from something dull, but also onto something better.

I don’t know if I could find a better place than London*. I don’t know if London will ever have me back if I leave. Why does living as an international young professional sometimes feel like living as a prisoner?

/* London

Narrow streets in watery tones like deep grey and brown and sand, with little white trucks carrying milk on their backs. Bicyclists and taxis and buses sharing lanes painted with thick, plastic paint that’s smooth to ride over. How the road gets shiny and bright, making the city look even more beautiful after it rains. Clouds so full and fluffy they look like a child’s drawing. Half-dilapidated, half-newly renovated townhouses, surrounded by flowering bushes, with twelve chimneys coming out of their tops. Pret a Manger. The pound sign, which gets more beautiful everyday and could look like the nose of a French doodle or a French doodle flexing their bicep, depending on your point-of-view. Trees who’s branches, when their leaves fall, look like a hundred tightly clenched fists. The way the tube recording says The next station is… Angel.



Writer, t-shirt designer, software engineer. Child. Canoe.

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