The forest smells of homicide this time of the year but there's no time to think about it. At least not when you feel your feet take you down the same path, ankles twisting for painful milliseconds, tripping on stumps of wood and arrangements of stinging nettles.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder but fondness usually vanishes sooner or later - after a month or two it turns into out of sight, out of mind. Fear, pride, nonchalance, I never really knew what it was all about and every miss you was always preceded by a kind of.
Sometimes I dread going back to London. My belongings are scattered on the floors of apartments around East London. It would feel so much easier to never knock on those doors again - leave my coats and paintings as memorabilia of relationships that never worked out anyway.
Pride, oh what a funny thing.
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