I don't even know what I'm trying to do. Those last few blog posts were so not me. I was trying to be someone and something that I'm not. Fuck that. It's 5 am, I haven't slept and my mind is not at peace. It's real time right now. My first instincts are to delete the last few posts...sure they reflect my opinions and what I've been up to, but they are not me, but I'll leave them there as a reminder to myself not to try be something I'm not. I don't even know what I want. I want to say that I don't know who I am, but the truth is, I'm not sure if that's true. I think I do know who I am, and I just don't like the answer. What I want, that's another thing altogether. I thought London was the answer. I told people that coming here was not an escape, but we all know it was. God knows what I expected from this place. It's beautiful and I hate it and it's ugly and I love it. I will never belong to this place and it will never belong to me. It will always have a place in my heart, but it will never be home. Home has never been home either and I think I've been predestined to a life of wandering, from one place to another. I don't possess the ability to form connections with people and maybe that's what I dislike about myself. I'm not unhappy, not depressed, yet I revel in my own melancholy. I find sadness beautiful and so I don't do anything about it. Silence is my softest, warmest blanket. Solitude is all I know and she's my best friend. All I can think of these days is Paris. It's my new London. When I was in LA, I convinced myself that London would change everything. It didn't and that's because I didn't let it. I tell myself that Paris will change everything but it won't. Because I don't want it to. I'm afraid I'll exhaust the list and run out of places to run to. No city is going to give me what I want. I'm reaching for the stars.