Today, I am alone. I woke up alone this morning. All the rooms that had recently contained sleeping people, people I had to be careful not to disturb, are empty; all the doors are open and the beds are untouched. I made coffee loudly and played music. I let the front door slam, carelessly, and no one protested. I am alone.
I will be alone for the next one hundred days. By choice.
Last May, I took my life apart in order to put it back together in a way that made more sense. I’ve always claimed to be a writer, and that’s been both my identity, and my – rather thinly woven – safety net, but I’d done no serious writing for years. I lived in London, surrounded by amazing people and doing a job I loved, but my life was like a beautiful, serene lake: deep enough and lovely to look at, but stagnant in places, and closed in. There was nowhere to go.
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