I was reading posts from Paul’s blog when I found my love of Sydney once again. The past 8 months have gone by before my eyes and work has more often than not taken over my life. I used to plan my weekends to go to a different part of the city and discover new favourite places; these days I sleep in and just go to Newtown in the afternoon because I’m too lazy to make the effort of taking public transport. And thus the cyclical nature of traveling home-work-home-Newtown-city-home becomes a tired routine and makes me duller day by day.

A series of incidents,  most are subtle, lately have stirred my desire of exploring the city yet again. I guess there’s always that part of you wanting to break a routine, which helps a lot. My having to move out 3 weeks from now, for once, is enough to get my butt off the bed and start thinking about which neighbourhood I want to live in next. I also, regretably, just found out about TwoThousand around a month ago, to guide my soul with random subcultural extract of Sydney life. And then there’s Paul’s fresh arrival from the other side of the world and his disposition of the ‘cool’ notion which remind me a lot of my own naivette only several months ago. There’s also the realisation that, if all my luck runs out in the next 4 months, then 4 months is all I’ve got to live here and breathe and embrace what Sydney has to offer. Especially horrified by that last thought, I am convinced now it is time for me to be myself again and stop pissing around wasting my sorry time being unproductive.

I bought a bouquet of daffodils today on my way back home, finishing Hornby’s Polysylabic Spree and start on Smith’s On Beauty, had a quiet conversation with my flatmate, went to a corner Italian pizzeria in Erskineville with my book to get dinner, rented some DVDs and went back home feeling content. And I thought to myself, welcome back, old chap.