My weekend was quite special. I was the ridiculously fortunate recipient of a ticket to a Summer Stampede outdoor music festival at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park (thank you, Kasha!), headlined by Mumford & Sons, with five other great acts (Vampire Weekend, Ben Howard, Edward Sharp & the Magnetic Zeros, Haim, and Bear’s Den) performing under the sunniest skies I’ve ever experienced in London. As the sun started to set on the crowd of 60,000 people listening to the music, I looked up at the sky and it was all pretty and there was an plane flying over (there’s always a plane flying over) and I thought “Holy shit, I’m in London”. It was more than that though. This is sort of what I was thinking:
I am a 25-year-old living, breathing, sentient meat blob, one of billions living on this spinning rock, and there are big things going on; terrible things, wonderful things… I’ve been quite absorbed in feelings of guilt and shame and failure because of my inability to find a job quickly and easily, and I’ve been thinking a lot about my past and how much potential I used to believe I had and how much I feel like I’ve been letting myself and everyone else down and where I should’ve been by now and what people think about me. Blah blah and blah. Here are the facts. The world is massive and amazing. I am small, and my problems are even smaller. I’m alive. I’m healthy. I’m one of the extreme minority of people who can have no job, but still have a place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear, and a lot of luxuries that other people don’t have. I’m part of a massive, energetic crowd of people at a music festival, with a great friend on a beautiful day. I just ate some pizza. I have a partner who I love to bits and who loves me back, even when I fall sideways off the tracks. I am so, so lucky. And I’m in London.
HOLY SHIT. I’m in London.