I can’t write about Bristol. That is to say I don’t know how. The last two weeks have felt like a lifetime, each minute filled with an intensity that can only come from traveling. Each experience pregnant with significance. I don’t know how to write about the excitement that I feel here. The feeling that this place is somehow familiar. The feeling of “participating” in life again.
I don’t know how to talk about this loneliness I feel. The kind that turns strangers into best friends. I cannot tell if the friends I have made will remain or if they are simply filler. I don’t know how to describe the kindness that complete strangers have shown me. From the random person asking me if I was OK on the street when I was clearly lost to the group of friends that adopted me for an afternoon. Or the randomness of a Friday night spent playing table tennis.
I don’t know how to explain the euphoria of staying up until 3 am texting the most gorgeous Frenchman or the crushing disappointment of our non-date. The ups and downs of searching for a place to rent. Of meeting creative people and calling myself a writer more times than ever before. Of meeting a person who is a window to my past in every way. Of having to stop myself from making the same mistake again.
I don’t know how to reconcile feeling all of these sensations at once.