Footloose

Nothing I do here counts. No tabs dog me, no tracks, no record, no reputation, no gossip flitters around my name. I am delightfully unrecognised, and I get high off the anonymity. This complete liberation has a dangerous effect on my personality. Here I find myself emotionally erratic, bold as a lion, gesticulating wildly without a moment’s censure, blinding as a river of cold crystal harshly forcing its way through the swollen sludge. Having uprooted myself I can discover my self in the purest, most primitive form and having turned inside out unleash, to mix with the raging city. I am more myself here than anywhere and with some small shock have discovered myself to be a complete arsehole, a tender baby, a wreck, a crude and flamboyant dictator.

(In addition, my neuroses have been allowed to remain completely unchecked and it grows by the day in twisted new forms. Home acts like a clipping to keep the jungle in my head from taking total control. The flatness, safety, warmth and predictablity of life in Sydney is both a relief and a curse.)