I have always been very conscious of certain things I’m doing for the last time. Before a trip, I always get in my own bed thinking it’s the last time before a number of days. I have the same thought also when taking a shower before that same trip. I don’t know why, for me, these two things are something that I am really conscious of – the last time I sleep in a bed, and the last time I shower in a certain place. One could say this is because I am picky with where I sleep and where I shower. But not sure if that is the case – it is true I develop a strange attachment to the bed I sleep in regularly. It already knows our body and our body already knows it. It is the place where you should peacefully close your eyes and rest. And showers… I do like a spacious shower with good pressure. But why, from everything I could think of, it is the bed and the shower that always come to mind?
I don’t have an answer to this. Yet I came to realise how really and almost exhaustingly conscious I am of last things or last times. Some people seem to be caught up on “first times”. I, for some reason, get caught up on the last times.
This reflection comes at a time I’m about to close a chapter of my life. Leaving what has been my job for almost six years and move on to a new opportunity, a new path, a new journey. And in this last month at this job, I’ve been acutely aware of the last time I’m doing certain things. This is the last team meeting I’m leading. This is the last time I’m speaking with this person, with this client. This is the last time. The last damn time.
It looks so final because it is supposed to be. The goodbyes I am now saying are meant to be forever. These are not the same last times of my bed or shower, to which I do end up coming back to. I just want it to be over. I just want this torrent of last times to end.
The feelings are melancholy and sadness. Of nostalgia. People say that if you feel that way about something that is over, it means it was worth it. This can be disputable, but I know this is the case. This job was the door that opened the world to me. Allowing me to move to London, to learn so much that I would have a chance to move up in my career. The friendly and welcoming environment I found there was so different from what I was used to in a previous (awful) job in Portugal. I was meeting amazing people, some of whom will remain a part of my life. And London opened the doors to the world, which was what I was craving so when I was 23 years old and moved there, to the unknown. Six years forward, I’m so grateful for this. And perhaps this is what the last times are so pressing at the moment. I’m leaving a metaphorical bed, a metaphorical shower. A place I was comfortable in, felt at home on. About to jump on a different adventure, embarking on a new journey.
Without London, without this job, this blog would have ceased to exist such a long time ago. And while this post isn’t about my typical travel, bookish or culture content, I felt I needed to share this. Also because with my return to London in September, I’m hoping to be posting more new things about London and sharing my favourite spots of this beautiful and grand city that I miss terribly, I utterly love and so often find myself hating 😊