Leaving on a jet plane

In twenty minutes, I leave my place of employ for the last time and hop on the tube to the train to the airport to the plane to Porto. I feel like I've had eight coffees when I've only had one. My co-workers gave me a card and a giftie, and Rachel made maandazi, and I almost wept a little. I didn't sleep much last night, was up at 5:30, and left my floor unHoovered. I found two more grey hairs this weekend, and had an anxiety dream on Monday morning about revolutions and violence and allegiances. I'm leaving for Portugal. I'm leaving London. I'm leaving London?! Oh my God, I'm going to Portugal.

Yes, I'm excited. Yes, I'm anxious. Mostly, I'm exhausted. This hasn't been the calmest or kindest month for me. I still feel that I didn't do everything that I'd hoped or was supposed to before I left, but it's a moot point. I'm going to arrive in Porto, and Diogo will pick me up from the airport, and I will meet his family and shower and eat and sleep sleep sleep the past month away, and tomorrow I will go to the ocean and take deep, deep breaths.

I wish I had been able to write more recently. There's been a lot going on, and so all the more reason to write. But time has slipped away, as it so often does, and the moment has come to embark on the next adventure, even as this one feels as though it hasn't completely ended. I'll write as much as I can in the coming weeks, but I don't expect to have internet access, so bear with the silence.

I'm off to make art in a foreign land.

Wish me luck!