When the Spirit Bends: A Note to My London Self -

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When the Spirit Bends: A Note to My London Self

There are days when something inside me leans—not collapses, not shatters—just quietly bends. Like a memory stretching after a long sleep. It’s a subtle ache, a whisper rather than a scream. And when the spirit bends, it doesn’t look forward. It turns, like clock hands drifting in reverse, and points me straight back to London.

Back to Putney, where my old flat clung to the edge of the river like it had secrets to keep. I can still see the light in that living room, muted by gray skies but somehow always warm. That flat was chaos and comfort. Mismatched furniture, overflowing bookshelves, nights spent talking to myself while pretending I was writing something important. It was home, or at least something close enough.

And not far from there—Fulham Broadway Station. Or rather, what used to be Fulham Broadway, before it got swallowed by some renovation that erased half the ghosts. That place was more than a tube stop. It was a pause. A breath. The point where I’d emerge after long Underground rides, shoulders tight with London weight, and suddenly feel like I could breathe again.

It was the station where I’d go to pretend I had plans. Where I waited in the cold, in love with people who never knew. Where I saw faces I’d never forget and names I never learned.

When the spirit bends, those things come flooding back. The fried air from late-night kebab shops. The awkward goodbye hugs outside Clapham Junction. The Sunday mornings in Putney High Street, where the city moved a little slower and I convinced myself I had time to figure it all out.

Sometimes I think I left pieces of myself scattered across those streets. A laugh on the bridge. A heartbreak near the river. A version of me that only existed between closing time and the first light of dawn.

I don’t romanticize it. Not entirely. There were hard winters and bad landlords. There were lonely walks and overdraft fees and missed chances. But somehow, it was all beautifully mine.

And now, when the air is still and the present feels too quiet, that old life knocks gently at the door. It reminds me that I wasn’t always who I am now. I was also the man who got lost in bookstores, who drank bad coffee in train stations, who once believed a night bus could change his life.

I let the spirit bend. I welcome the weight of remembering. Because those memories aren’t burdens—they’re ballast. They keep me grounded when everything else shifts.

So here’s to Putney and Fulham, to the city that held me when I didn’t know what I was doing. To the version of myself that didn’t need to have all the answers, just a travelcard and a little faith.

I see you. I miss you. And in my quietest hours, I still walk those streets with you.