London is a Dream I Failed

Was just looking for a quiet playlist when I came across an album I used to loop in my London apartment during my second year of university. The moment the song began, I was back by that window—on the sill sat a beer bottle I took from Ann’s place, with flowers I picked up from the Waitrose on my way home, and a few scented candles burnt down to their final flickers.

I used to sit at the small, rickety round table I bought for 19 pounds from Ikea all the time, daydreaming. Had countless meals on that little white tabletop, countless mornings full of hope, and nights wandering.  I love being in front of the window—one that never fully opened—letting the cold air slip in. Every gust of wind reminded me that I was alive.

On sleepless nights, I like to make snacks in my tiny kitchen, spreading yogurt and jam onto a bagel. I dreamed about love in my little room, curled up on the carpet, fantasizing about someone’s fingers laced through mine, waiting for a message notification to light up the screen.

The week before I left London, I couldn’t stop crying in an Uber home. The car drove past Trafalgar Square, the riverside I had walked so many times, my school, the way I walk to school every day, and the pubs I always pass by but never enter. I realized then—every step forward was an act of mourning, mourning the things I had lost, the things that I had dropped, slipped away.

This isn’t an age to mourn. I should be looking forward, building something. And yet, I can’t help but turn back—to that little apartment I lived in for two years as if it were still there waiting for me to return. The bed still creased from an afternoon nap, the wind slipping through the window, the plants I haven’t watered in a while, breakfast dishes in the sink, and my fuzzy jacket still draped over the back of my chair.

I keep thinking—if I had never moved out, never gone through all the relentless emotional turmoil that pulled me back into depression—would I have already found a job by now? Would I still be taking evening walks along the Thames with my dear friends?

Last Saturday, after leaving the gallery, I walked home with so much joy in my heart, but with no one to share them with, they sat too long inside me, smothered and stale. I was walking down the street when it hit me—I had done it again. Once more, I had arrived in a new country, alone. Once more, I was trying to build a small castle for myself. This shouldn’t be easy. And yet, somehow, I feel like I’m supposed to carry it lightly.

My family and friends are ten hours away. And so, on a sunny weekend afternoon, all I can do is walk, letting the smell of loneliness scatter a little before I get home.

London is a dream that I failed. The thought of it always carried a quiet ache, and before I know it, tears are falling. I don’t know if it’s London I long for, or the 21-year-old version of myself who once lived there. The girl who stared at the river for too long, who lost sleep countless nights, who cried over the tragedies of strangers, who roamed the streets at 2 AM with friends talking and laughing like tomorrow doesn’t exist.

Back then, the future felt too far away. My biggest worries were that no man loved me, and trauma reactions and panic attacks that came uninvited. I only wanted to take life one day at a time, to feel as much as I possibly could, and then—

Then, I don’t know.

Now, I have the modern apartment I once dreamed of. I live in the center of the city. I rarely lose sleep. And I don’t starve myself anymore. I work in a beautiful gallery, and people seem to like me. But whenever someone asks me: “Where did you live before this?” I hesitate. There is a split second of retreat, a sudden weight behind my ribs.

I want the best of everything. I want the world to be my oyster. I want to work late in Mayfair, cry in my Chelsea apartment, and spend weekends in Paris. I want to date a Cambridge guy only to decide we’re not right for each other by the end of dinner.

Sometimes, I feel like I live in a matchbox—quiet, insignificant, a tiny matchstick. When kindness comes my way, I can’t believe I deserve it. Other times, I am so stubbornly convinced that I deserve everything good in this world. Do I? Does any of this deserve me? And so, in this endless loop, I live my small, small life.

You wouldn’t see me from the moon. You wouldn’t see me over the earth. In fact, even if you were just 500 meters away, I would disappear. I have become part of the landscape, another figure in the crowd, a moving silhouette, a statistic in history. 

But in this big, big world,  I still have thirty people I hold close to my heart. I love them. Their stories live inside me, each one etched into my memory.

Right now I sit in this little apartment that holds me. The screen glows before me as I type out dense words. 

I am not important. 

To the world, I am not important. But in this moment, in many moments like this, I feel like I carry something heavy, something vast. It builds and builds, spilling into my mind, pressing against my chest. Sometimes, it drowns me.

I flutter, and bubble to the surface.

And someday in the future, this moment, too, will be remembered. The plants in front of my table, the warm light under my microwave, this very room— will become another dream I can never step into again, a memory lingering in my longing.

I always think I am already an old woman lying in bed, recalling everything happening now. And then, inevitably, regret casts its shadow over it all.  Every beautiful thing in life is fragile. The clouds disperse too soon and the glass breaks too easily. To cherish the present or to indulge in nostalgia—neither is the nobler choice.

I am only passing through.

只是想找一个安静的歌单，翻到了在伦敦大二时常常在家中循环的专辑，曲子响起的一瞬间就回到公寓的窗边，窗台上摆着从安安家顺来的啤酒瓶，里面插着下课后在回家路上的Waitrose买的顺季的鲜花，还有几个快要用完的香薰蜡烛。

我常常坐在那张宜家19磅买来的，摇摇欲坠的小圆桌前发呆，在那片白色的桌面上度过那么多一日三餐，那么多清晨的期望和夜晚的彷徨。我喜欢在那扇只能打开一半的窗子前，让外头随意闯进的冷风扑在脸上，每一次都让我生出一种活着的喜悦。

睡不着的夜里在小厨房做零食，把酸奶和果酱抹到贝果上。“ I used to dream about love “我在我的小房间里幻想着爱，在地毯上蜷缩着， 梦见谁的手插进我的指尖，等待一个消息的提示音。

离开伦敦前的一周，我在回家的Uber上哭得止不住，车子驶过Trafalgar Square, 驶过我常散步的河边，我的学校，每天上学的路，还有那些我常常看到，却从未踏入的酒吧。当时的我意识到：在往前走的每一步，我都在哀悼，哀悼我失去的、掉落的东西。这不是一个适合哀悼的年纪，我应该向前看，应该充满期待，去建造一点什么。可我总忍不住回头，看那个我住了两年的的小公寓，仿佛它仍然在那里等着我推开门，床上还留着午睡后的痕迹，窗外的风吹进来，好久没有给我的绿植浇水，水池里还有早餐没洗的盘子，毛绒外套仍旧搭在椅背上。

我总想，如果当时没有搬出去和当时的男友同居，没有经历那一系列导致我抑郁复发的纠结与内耗，如果我还住在我的小公寓里，是不是早已找到了一份工作，是不是现在的傍晚，还能和朋友在泰晤士河边散步。

上周六从画廊下班回家，心里好多满足和欣喜在无人分享后被捂过了头，变了气味。走在大街上突然意识到我再一次只身一人来到陌生的国家，再一次试图搭建我的小城堡。这本不该是一件简单的事，可不知为什么，我总觉得，我必须云淡风轻的完成。家人与朋友们远在十小时之外，于是那时的我唯一能够做的，只是漫步在周末的大街上，让孤单和寂静在到家之前散一散味道。

London is a dream that I failed. 想起来总是带着不甘，眼泪掉下来。不知道我是想要回到那里，还是想回到21岁的自己。那时我喜欢盯着河流，常常失眠，为了天桥下离开的流浪汉多愁善感，在凌晨两点的大街上和朋友谈天说地。那时未来离我很远很远，最大的麻烦是没有男人爱我，以及那些时不时出现的创伤反应和惊恐发作。我只是想一天一天的过去，尽可能地感受最多，然后，然后我也不知道。

现在的我有了曾经梦寐以求的现代小公寓，住在市中心，我很少再失眠，也不会逼自己挨饿。在漂亮的画廊里当实习生，大家似乎还蛮喜欢我。可每当被问到之前住在哪里的时候，总有一点落荒而逃的鼻酸。

我真的很势利，I want the best of everything, I want the world to be my oyster. 我想要在Mayfair加班，在Chelsea的公寓里哭泣，在巴黎过周末，和剑桥毕业的男人date以后觉得我们不合适。有时候，我觉得自己是住在火柴盒里，卑微的、安静的小火柴人，在受到一点善意以后不可置信。有时候，又执拗地坚信我配得上一切最好的东西。我配吗？这一切，配得上我吗？在这样的循环里，过着我小小的人生。

你在月亮上看不到我，在地球上空也看不到我，甚至你离我五百米的距离，我就消失了。我成了风景中的一部分，川流不息的人，背景，历史，人口，数字。在大大的星球里，小小的我有三十个在乎的其他小小的人，我爱他们，我对他们的故事如数家珍。我坐在这间能容纳我的小小公寓里，屏幕亮着，敲下密密麻麻的字。我不重要；对人类而言，我不重要。可是在这一刻，在很多相似的时刻，我觉得我背负着很大很大的东西，他们一点一点地积攒，溢进我的大脑，塞满我的心口，有时把我淹没，我扑腾扑腾地冒泡泡。

在未来的某一个时刻，如今的我也将被如此怀念。我面前的绿箩，厨房微波炉下的暖灯，这个房间，将是另一个我再也进不去，但永远存在于思念中的美梦。

我总是想，我已经是一个躺在床上的老太太了，回忆着现在发生的一切。然后一切都无可避免地照上了遗憾的影子。大都好物不坚牢，彩云易散琉璃脆。珍惜当下也好，顾影自怜也好，没有哪个是更高尚的选择。

我只是静静地流淌。