I’m getting off at Finsbury Park
and that familiar sense of displacement hurts me.
I think of how I used to run to you and how hollow your embrace is to me now.
Even if I wanted to go back I know I will be disappointed.
I walk passed my first job in the city; how sad and scared and young I was:
Marlborough Lights and Sauvignon Blanc and sitcom ideas
scribbled on the back of receipts.
Actor crushes, Jeremy Corbyn handshakes and Jessica Glynn Spotify playlists.
What a difference a year makes.
Suddenly used to constant upheaval to laying my head upon a pillow that doesn’t feel like home.
But in this city, home is not a physical space;
It’s state of the heart; a perspective;
that fleeting burst of hope underground that shoots up out of nowhere.
It’s unpredictable, you cannot control or contain that sense of relief and it’s futile to chase it.
Just hold it close when it visits, remember that shadows make light stronger
and cold weather makes tea sweeter.
London isn’t a person, it isn’t a house or a sofa,
It’s a sprawling Metropol.
To feel at home is to let go of that notion entirely.
No one settles, no one sleeps, it runs and it paces and it demands everything.
But the reward is great, it’s brighter and cuts deeper than anything you’ve strived for before.