Going back to somewhere you once lived is like getting laid after a dry spell. You really want it. You’ve thought about it far too much. You start to properly ache until it gets unbearable. And then, when it finally happens, you have no idea what the hell to do with yourself. Mess of limbs and confused brain and nerve endings that you are.
My old haunts are seductive bitches. And then I get there, and it’s crowded and raining and more expensive than I remember and fuck this. Not literally ‘fuck this’. Physically impossible, that. But I do wonder why I bother sometimes.
(Oh, hey Kady, are you harping on about the positive aspects of change again? You are? I see. Go right ahead.)
Leaving something and coming back to it later makes you look at it fresh. That’s why this is such common advice when you’re stuck on a creative brief or lacking inspiration. Go away, do something else for a bit, try again in a few hours. You’ll get a new perspective on the situation.
Naturally, that also happens when you haven’t lived in a place for a while. You start seeing it in a new way. It doesn’t feel good, but it is. It stops you from stagnating. It keeps you grounded.
In the cold light of day, you may wonder why you ever thought an idea was even remotely sexy. Like choosing to spend so long in a place you secretly weren’t happy with. Or wearing THAT on a first date. Or running with a concept that was clearly shit to anyone with eyes.
You made your bed, at some point, and you lay in it for a while. And maybe there was someone else in it you didn’t particularly like. Do you really want to stay there just because it’s still warm?