[Versão portuguesa em baixo]
London, despite of my opinion on its beauty, was a going back to a painful past. Two years ago, back there, I entered to worst period of my life and I am just leaving it right now. I didn’t think I was ready to go back there just yet.
Call me crazy, but I decided I would go to the place I lived there, just to redo my daily steps, in an attempt to make amends with the past, with my decisions, with the world and, most importantly, with myself.
So there I was, in a Finchley Road just as I remembered it. The Tiger store I had bought some home stuff, the O2 mall with the Sainsbury’s market I used to go on a regular basis, the coffee shop I tried to work at once and… my house.
It was never a home, I didn’t even make the necessary effort for that. It was just a house, full of shared bedrooms, where I used to cry every day during my stay in London. I couldn’t even enjoy our terrace properly. I just hated it. And I hated my life.
More than two years later, I stood there, in front of that door behind which there was my home, for a little while. I took some photos and I felt inner peace coming over. Under the London sun, I forgave me and the mean people and events that had brought me to the deepest unhappiness I have ever felt.
It was, indeed, the right moment to go there: I was ready for the shock and it pushed me forward.