I’m sat here in the North Terminal, chomping on my Pret salad (consisting only of vegetables and grains, costing £4.50 takeaway price) and feeling a little ill. Gatwick is buzzing. People are, and are from, everywhere. But it makes me sick. We collectively sit mindlessly, unconsciously, unthinkingly getting on with our lives. Some are trying to validate their exciting existence with a getaway. Some are going home, and others are going on business trips. We always have an agenda. An external reason or purpose to do or to go.

Perhaps it could [and should?] be seen as a beautiful process. The extreme efficiency to pick, pay and eat lunch in a matter of minutes. We live in an era of convenience. Strife is to be avoided. Shortcuts always to be taken. Does this promote self-development? What do parents try and set up for our children? No bumps. Then those molehills inflate to fucking mountains when not met early on.

I suddenly have an urge escape into the Portuguese forest. I want to take Jean Mi, a doggie, a million books and take this time to be by myself. Yoga, nature, good food, my love, my life. Simplicity.

What if my corporate lifestyle robs me of my romantic understanding of “true life” and imposes upon me its draconian clockwork process? What if I forget? What if I am brainwashed?

What if I am currently brainwashed?

Sometimes, life feels too overwhelming. I am overwhelmed by the disagreements in my head. Juxtaposed. Like cheap pick’n’mixes; bric-a-bracs of chicken thoughts. Incomplete and abandoned. I want to live one way, yet I accept another. I BELIEVE ALL. I don’t believe in nothing.

My mind is jumping. My heart is flipping. My stomach wrenches and I feel sick.


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