#62
7.
This morning I woke up and felt something was amiss – different, instantly when I was coherent I thought something happened or was about to.
I woke with a headache even before my day started and I suppose I didn’t sleep well because I also have a stiff neck. Despite the sun and clouds in a bright blue sky I slink to work slowly in an air of melancholy. Slowly walking from the tube stop to the office, against the grain pushing against the flow of people. Slow walkers here seem to be the scourge of life, the lowest form of Londoner or worse, a tourist. I feel eyes on me as I go, people huffing, nearly walking into me from the back, tripping over my feet.
I’ve had mornings like this before, waking up to a feeling of expectation and not getting anything at the end. My mind keeps trying to pin down something, but it’s just a day. This one feels different, though.
8.
Lunch at the small park. It’s quiet and clean, surrounded by Tudor mansions filled with Arabs and Indians. London by chance has so many lovely parks, big and small, filled with an array of flowers, yet the city constantly has a smell of diesel and car fumes. It’s unfortunate that a city so lovely, so put together has such a big traffic and pollution problem.
It is filled with unusual faces from nearly every corner of the world. But I find it amazingly uncanny how out of the corner of my eye on the train or maybe on the bus, or even walking down the street or stopping at a café that I keep thinking I see people I know (or knew). Most of the time, old girl friends. Girls I dated, kissed, walked in fields with. Drank too much wine with, stole croissants and baguettes with, smoked with and occasionally made love to. They still haunt my mind, my memory and all it takes is a side-glance at someone here for my heart to jump and start beating rapidly. Some days it makes me think about trying to find them, get back in touch, and see what they are up to. But do they want to be found? Do they want to talk and reminisce about events long gone? Do they even remember me?
I have an attachment to nostalgia that is fearful and unending.
A busy mind.