If I don't risk having my words misunderstood, I don't give myself the opportunity to be understood

Literature, music, film.

These are the things I believe in. These are the things that make sense to me, that help me make sense of the world around me, make sense of myself, and my struggle with the universe. It always comes back to these three things.

I don’t want a job. I don’t want your comforts. I don’t want your obligations and your markers of personal success.

I want to be alone. And I want to be in communion with people that are good, curious, different. People that understand. I want to be both alone and in fellowship. To love and be loved, but not conventionally.

I was born an outsider. I was born different. Perhaps to make it easier for me to choose to be different, in the ways one can choose.

Those who came before us, who were lost in the fight for nothing and everything, we take you into our hearts. We take you with us on our own journeys, not entirely aware of what your lessons mean, and how they will help us, but knowing they are important and lasting. We salute you, brave soldiers, sons and daughters of a nameless and timeless revolt.

I'm OK if you're OK, London.

I'm becoming more aware of the fact that I oscillate between times of clarity, direction, purpose and hope, and other times where I get lost in the fog of confusion, hopelessness, frustration, and despair.

I'm bored of the latter phase, because as much as I enjoy revelling in the sadness of an existential crisis, my despair has been focussed on the same battles and issues for such a long time. It's tired, and tiring.

I've come to terms with the fact that in order for 2011 to go my way, things are going to have to change dramatically, and so I'm concentrating my efforts on new battles within the same greater war. I'm optimistic and excited. Right now, anyway.

I know my emotional pendulum will swing backwards into darker territory eventually (probably soon), but I'm going to try and focus on a few specific projects and opportunities, and as long as I fight for those, I know I can shine my little flashlight and keep truging down the darkened path towards daybreak.

Melodramatic much? Always.

East

Sitting in Sarajevo airport, waiting for my departure back to London via Munich.

Jelena picked me up at Sarajevo airport on Friday to begin our road trip to Kalsdorf Castle, near Graz, Austria, for our friend Hannes’ party. We ended up spontaneously heading to Pecs, Hungary for the first night, wanting a bit of a detour and adventure and some time alone to catch up. Pecs is a pretty, elegant city, and we slept in a strange bohemian hostel/sheesha bar/vintage store/tea shop, and drank beers in an atmospheric lot, still covered in the bricks and remains of some former building, and now illuminated with projected images and full of music and laughter and picnic tables. I’m totally intrigued by Hungary, and I definitely want to go back.

We didn’t arrive at the castle in Austria until dinner time on Saturday night -- after discovering that there are two towns named Kalsdorf near Graz -- but we spent a lovely evening drinking prosecco and local schnapps and beer, and jumping around on a bouncy castle positioned somewhat ironically in the inner courtyard of the castle itself. It was a great party, and a nice time with new and old friends. At four in the morning we sprawled out and slept uncomfortably on expensive imported carpets, positioned under expensive works of art, but woke up happy and thankful, and shared a delicious brunch in the courtyard with all the partygoers before Jelena and I headed back out on the road, through Slovenia and Croatia, back to Sarajevo.

I barely survived last week, but I did survive. I had to take it hour by hour just to pull through, physically and emotionally. Wednesday and Thursday night I probably got a combined 3.5 hours of sleep. I was wrecked and sad and overwhelmed and pushed to my limits.

I’m now moved out of my flat, and feel heavy with the load of my possessions, which have grown exponentially after two years in London. I need to purge, and let go of things I don’t need. The homeless don’t have the luxury of keeping and storing. So that’s the priority for this week: purge, purge, purge. Lighten my load of possessions, and hopefully lighten my spirits in return. Being without a home is fine when you can comfortably fit your possessions in a backpack. But it took me half a dozen loads in the pouring rain to move my belongings. That’s not cool, in my current position. That’s not a mobile state, in a time that demands a great deal of personal mobility.

This weekend - particularly spending time with Jelena, Ana and Vlado in Sarejevo - has refreshed me, but also made me feel apprehensive and unsure, once again, about geography. There is life and love and inspiration and adventure outside of London. It’s hard to realise that when you’re fighting to stay in a place that makes you work for every inch of space, every inch of success. London is like a vortex, though, that sucks you in and makes you feel like there is no other place to be, even if you aren’t happy there. Few people are satisfied there, but most are convinced of their place in the city.

Leaving London doesn’t scare me, though, as much as it has in the past. I love so many people there, and I love things about it so much, but my life in London, in reality, is not much of a life. Take away the friends, and I have nothing but memories. No job, no home, nothing tangible, nothing keeping me rooted. There’s nothing holding me there, besides... perhaps love and hope and nostalgia? And perhaps, deep down, stubbornness.

I know I want to be in Europe, but this weekend has made me realise that London isn’t necessarily the only place to be, or the best place for me to be, just because I have friends and a visa. Berlin and Budapest are spinning through the folds of my imagination, and occupying higher and higher positions in the platforms of my mind. I’m going to explore the potential in these cities over my month of reestablishing myself. I’m ready for adventure, and possibly a change of scenery. Particularly if opportunities in London don’t materialise soon. And I’m ready to fight broadly for the future, not just specifically, for a single urban dream that might represent the past more than anything.

I don’t want to board this flight. I’ve never been more tempted to walk out of an airport and get back into a cab. London: I’ve been fighting for you for so long. If you want me to stay, you’re going to have to fight for me too, because I’ve never wanted you less. I’m done. I’m hurt and I’m tired and I”m angry. You are being, frankly, kind of a bitch.

Fuck you, London. No seriously. Fuck you, you piece of shit. You’ll be lucky if I take you back. I fucking hate you right now. If you had a face I would slap you until you bled. I would kick your teeth in and pull your hair and leave you in the gutter, like you’ve done to me. I’m not joking, London. Say you’re sorry, you fucking jerk.

I’m sure I’ll forgive you. I always do. And I'm a pacifist anyway.