I don't really want to taste Marmite

I was told by a friend that while in London, I would write like never before.
Problem is, I don’t feel like it.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve mostly been doing things alien to me; or, rather, avoiding what’s kindred.
I don’t even feel like putting this up on my blog.
I keep thinking that when I move into my flat, or when I become used to work, or when Ben and Virus arrive, or when anything that’s not this & now will happen, I will begin to write again. I will begin to do yoga again. I will begin to be myself again.
When I am not working, or busying myself some other way, I would rather stare at the ceiling. Or stare at the sky. That’s the sad truth. A mourning feeling like when Oma passed and I felt her everywhere out there. A lack of words to sum it up.*
I know my friends back home are waiting to read all about it. Don’t I just love it here? Isn’t it wonderful? I don’t know how to explain that I’m almost alone, but wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The food sucks. Everything is bloodly expensive. The weather can be down right depressing. Here, my sense of smell has finally developed to recognize a permeating sweet scent of stench. I don’t really have anything good to say about this place, but you would have to tear me away from it kicking and screaming. I can’t explain it. Words fail me.*
So I have nothing to declare. Nothing to report.

I can say that I am packing. I will be moving out of P’s place this week. Of course, I feel nostalgic about leaving this room/house/court/street/neighborhood/daily tube ride. I’m a bit afraid of living alone too close to work, mostly because I don’t trust myself. I’ll become a hermit. I’ll revel in my solitude and in the excuse work provides. I’ll work late and come home and indulge myself in a long evening of staring at the ceiling or the sky. I can see myself becoming that woman already.



*What is it about words always coming up short??