emotionalmarkup

Depraved indifference.

This sums up my current attitude to uprooting my entire life, including quitting a good job, leaving a prodigious circle of friends, lovers and colleagues, and moving to another country where I hardly speak the language, don’t have anywhere to live and where the customs duty officer will be the first person I know. Maybe he’ll want to be friends.*

So why is it, given this colossal change of lifestyle at age thirty, that I cannot summon what even a dalek would consider an emotional spasm of consequence?

Indeed there has been an ocean of things to do before leaving that have occupied my thoughts. This has kept the pencil-neck administration officer in my brain in full-time employment. He has been the one demanding that I update my address, cancel my subscriptions to obscure publications, sell expendable assets and keep receipts for next year’s tax return. God knows how the bohemians, Casanovas and homeless drunks are doing in there with this bore at the helm. I hope they come back soon. They were fun.

And yet I haven’t been living the existence of an automaton for the last two weeks either. There have been smiles, large plates of meat and the incessant chinking of wine glasses. Nevertheless, the fear of what will unfold in the next chapter is a mere whisper in the corridor and I know, although I don’t feel it, that the full weight of my predicament will almost surely slam down upon me when I least expect: from above, below, left, right and behind.

* I am relocating my body and some precious possessions from Sydney, Australia to Barcelona, Spain. I claim to be a web developer, designer and tortured intellectual. I also claim to be half asleep most of the time, but I really do listen to what you are saying to me.