Here I am in London. I spend time sitting at my window in my room on the 15th floor. I sit on my bed and look out really big windows at night. I switch the light off and look at all the city lights. It’s one of my last days/ nights in this room. The view is wonderful. The lights are beautiful. I love this city. It drives me nuts. I never have any free time anymore. I love London. Both because and despite itself.
I have never been to another city that is so me. Ok, I absolutely adore Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv is beautiful. It has the perfect weather, it has beautiful beaches, it has amazing views and wonderful people. I love it and feel at ease. But Tel Aviv is what I would like to be, not what I actually am.
London is saturated. It’s full. It’s overflowing. Overflowing with good and bad. With beauty and ugliness. Its so ad hoc. There is no plan to its growth. There is no structure. There is, but one that grew ad hoc, that can’t really carry it. It can’t really carry itself. It’s too much for itself to handle. But it still does, has always done, will continue to do so and do so succesfully. It loves itself. It despises itself. It nurtures itself. It mutilates itself. It sarves itself. It feeds itself. It feeds on itself. It loves itself both because and despite itself. I love London.



