The Return

The morning of day two sees me on the running track along the Yarra. I'm flying, feet falling easily into the rhythm of the Aussie MCs in my headphones laughing at themselves, laughing at life. The sunshine is gorgeous, comforting, reassuring, even as it pushes my body's core temperature towards 'critical'. I'm buzzed, throwing shapes, leaping over obstacles, pushing hard and feeling like I could run forever. I haven't felt this good for months, maybe longer.

And that's a worry. The human mind is infinitely adaptable, always eager to establish a new 'normal', and the misery of freezing, dark, inactive days had become so inescapable to me that I didn't even see it any more. It takes a shock like this to see how good things should - not could - be.

So I'm making a ruling. That was my last London winter. Not "the last one straight through without a break", but "the last one that I am present for at all". Winter, for this purpose, is December through February.

Creativity comes from constraints. So, if I add two difficult constraints to the mix - I need to budget for £1000 of jet fuel each year, and I'll be out of the country for 25% of the time - I'll be interested to see what kind of life I need to build to satisfy them.

Straight-up shipping out isn't an option, not yet. London and Oz are two very different loves, but I don't have it in me to forsake either entirely. My friends, my contacts, most of my opportunities are up north. Seems a shame to leap from a platform that's not burning. So this plan dooms me to continuing division between two different homes, two groups of friends who mostly won't meet, two identities, even. Okay.

Never was any good at letting go.
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