Last night I reunited with a high school friend in Central London. We decided it had been at least 5 years. On my way home, when I popped up from the tube into the English dampness, the arpeggiated piano accompaniment for Someone Like You by Adele started on my iPod. I’ve been (grotesquely) indulging to the song on repeat for the last two weeks, so when it played by natural virtue of its cue in a playlist, it felt serendipitous and fateful. I was instantly moved.
‘Sometimes it lasts in love and sometimes it hurts instead.’ That fact froze me on the corner of my friends’ flat, my face tilted up to the rain, mouth broke into a toothy grin and tears streamed down my face. Pure madness to the onlooker. I stood there crying – for the beginning, the end and therefore the middle of personal transition, for my cousins’ joy at their new puppy, for kids who cry when they see other kids cry, for Amy Winehouse’s mom, for profound loneliness and subsequent connection, for going the journey alone for awhile. My heart burst toward pavement and sky. I felt held by the night air.
I slept hard last night. I woke to an unsettling dream about wooden dolls, but when I came to, I felt safe: like I had admitted vulnerability to the earth at long last and it would therefore take care of me in the face of uncertainty. Now off on a day of further movement, this time by the people moving machines of international airports. Wishing everyone a heart bursting second.
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