Where do I begin? Warwick is everything I'd ever hoped for and more. The scenery is obscenely picturesque. The lights at night are beautiful. The people are great, and I've made friends. Truckloads and truckloads of them. The first two weeks were a whirlwind of booze and parties, and they've kept me occupied and happy. But in their aftermath, I wonder.
Some days, I am content to go about my business alone and most nights, I immerse myself in loud music and excited chatter about trivial matters I never remember afterwards, perfectly happy so. I go running in the afternoons. I bask in my new-found freedom. Being self-sufficient is more a liberation than a responsibility. But some nights, some nights, I am sad. My vicious resistance to weakness is forgotten. The irrational euphoria gets tiresome. I stop caring for being interesting. Some nights, making small talk with these people I have only superficial knowledge of is exhausting.
To be fair, these people have interesting personalities. In future, I will get closer to some of them and things can only get better, but frankly, at this point, I can write you a whole book of poetry on why closer will never be good enough.
Tonight, I sat alone on a bench outside the arts centre. The cold air and the soothing night sounds brought my senses into focus. The solitude is a relief. For a long time, I sat there brooding, breathing white mist into the air in front of me and observing the pattern of the lights on the rooftops. I wondered if sadness was a real emotion. Is it the opposite of happiness, or the lack of it, much like cold is an absence of heat? And I cannot help but think, maybe I would trade all these, the beautiful lights, the intricate brickwork, the immaculately trimmed trees, for a late-night laugh with old friends, about old times, in a run-down Chinese coffee shop.
But of course I wouldn't. I am too much of a realist for that.