I've been living in furnished places, looking at other people's things, living in the moment for four months now. It's been an adventure, but I'd like to wake up one day and remember where I am without thinking too long on it. I'd like to sleep in a bed that's mine, cook in a kitchen that I know where things are.

I'm living where we used to live, you and I. It's the same building, just a few floors higher. It has the same view. It's different though and I wake up lost now and then, thinking that it looks familiar but something isn't quite right. The things that I used to like about living here seem foreign now, and when I walk through the lobby it feels more like a dream of the past than like the present. I remember late nights out with friends trying to beat the sun rise home with the same hazy quality covering as there was when I stepped into the elevator this morning. If today were a movie it would be Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I'm living like a gypsy; everything that fills the rooms where I stay belong to someone else. They are nice things, but they aren't mine. They aren't yours either and they were never ours. Maybe that's why there is a strange comfort as well as a slight dissatisfaction in it. If My life were a book, today it would be A Moveable Feast.

I'm not sad, or melancholic, just pensive. I think that coming back here is like living next door to the house you grew up in. If today were a song, it might have been Fairy Tale of New York, but it isn't and I'm glad that it's not.

She said “I wish you weren’t leaving” and I asked if she was going to ask me to stay. “No”, she said “there is something almost Hemmingway about your adventure so you go see the world, boy”.