I've touched on three seasons since my last post, and this murky autumn day seems like a fitting time to resume. I'd like to think that writing is only worth doing when you've really got something to write about, but that's just an excuse for apathy, or lying, or both.
In four months I've seen things, I've done things, I've felt things. Vietnam, London, Bursa. Beaches, cities, parties, food, food, food. Frustration, anger, success, failure, delight, anxiety, elation, expectation, disappointment in people, disappointment in myself, alienation, belonging.
I've farewelled old friends, made new ones, sweated from places I didn't know you could sweat, tasted food I never knew you eat, discovered bars I thought only existed in dreams.
I would like to have read more, written more, travelled more, doubted less, doubted more, said more, said less, drank less, stood up for myself more, slept more, loved more, lived more.
But that's life, and I'm still here to write about it.