Countdown

I leave in 7 weeks. The timing affords me a cozy margin of mild panic, that same inertia that has restrained me within my zone of comfort for the past 28 years. Finally, I'll be on my own, somewhat. I'm dead excited, although they say that Britain is on the decline, and I can't help but agree. But London represents to me so much more than that.

I lived there for 3 years when I was a child, utterly dependent on my parents. Now, I will be going on my own merit. I was never one for drastic measures: no re-invention or cathartic awakening will happen, I know. But it's wonderful enough, so wonderful, that before I hit the big 30, I get a second chance.

There's a drizzle outside, and it's Saturday night, and I realized that I had just stood up my friends for clubbing. I feel bad, but I just don't know why I hardly feel up to it, given the fact that little time is left. I really don't feel like meeting anyone; yet I'm tense, ready to spring from my chair, praying that the next 3 years will teach me how to plug these gaping holes in my life.