At the time, it felt like a disaster. Well, not a proper disaster like a typhoon, just a personal one. I was so ashamed of myself, and no one could really understand what the hell was going on. Sure thing, I was applying for all the possible jobs and was getting all the possible job interviews anyone can ever dream of. And every time I accepted a job, I was feeling just like dying inside.
Just to be clear, it was not a competition or a challenge, you know – like these people (usually French) who live one year without palm oil, or those who climb a mountain to support a charity or the ones who make millions with an ebook about ebooks. You know, those people who post stuff online all the time, have followers and tell you that now they have bought a new MacBook they would never go back to a regular PC in a million years?
Well, this was not me. No blog, no followers, no social media. Just myself, constantly thinking that my place was supposed to be elsewhere.
Rome, Brussels, Paris, London, Madrid, then London again, then Seville, then London for the third time, in all its forms.
Queen’s Park, Finsbury Park, Hackney, Bermondsey, Canada Water, Woolwich, Bromley (which is in Kent technically, but I am located only 9ft away from the border, so I still consider it being London. Also, if I’d tell you that I live in Kent you’d picture grasslands and horses, while everything we’ve got here is cars and pigeons).
I tirelessly kept changing flats, flatmates, mates, milk brands. It didn’t matter where I was and what I was doing, I constantly felt in the wrong place.
I would have found a better job elsewhere. I would have done everything to find THE job.
My dream job had to be somewhere out there, somewhere over the rainbow.
I had this in mind the last time I moved to London under the rain.
My dream job would eventually appear, I was sure, it was just a matter of time, it was just that I didn’t have the right chance yet: in London, everything would be different.