London

The forty-degree drop from tropical to subzero hits like a system shock. My body struggles to recalibrate, to find equilibrium in this new temperature range. But the real freeze comes from within, a gradual realization that something fundamental has been shifting.

The city becomes an unexpected mirror, reflecting the burnout that's taken hold of my mind. I don't have a choice but to step back from work—team members and clients have created a quarantine zone around me, fearing the contagion of my "flu".

Meanwhile, the distance from home that should provide perspective, amplifies the isolation.

The time difference between continents carves deeper grooves into my already exhausted core. Messages arrive at odd hours, each ping a reminder of a world operating in a different temporal plane. My brain struggles to translate between time, to calculate when it's appropriate to respond and when it's acceptable to rest. Four hours ahead means more darkness and disconnecting from any familiar rhythm.

It's really frustrating when it gets dark at 3 PM.

People's well-meaning suggestions echo from across the ocean - "See Big Ben," they say, as if landmark-hunting could rewire neural pathways. Their expectations land like notifications I can't process, and each tourist must-see becomes another input my overwrought system can't handle. The weight of their recommendations compounds with my condition, creating a feedback loop of overwhelm and isolation.

I venture out in small doses. A bookstore becomes a temporary sanctuary, rows of spines offering silent companionship. Searching for cassette tapes to feed the cheap Chinese deck I brought along becomes an adventure. But each step beyond my hotel's perimeter raises invisible alarms. The city transforms into sensory overload, a DDOS attack on my consciousness. Streets packed with tourists, underground stations humming with activity, shops overflowing with merchandise - it all becomes too much to process.

My immediate neighborhood morphs into a 4x4 dungeon—small but already too vast and full of unknown variables. Each corner store, café, and intersection holds the potential for overwhelming input. Each new path becomes another variable in an equation I can't solve until staying within known boundaries becomes the only manageable strategy.

The time zone difference amplifies everything, turning day into night and night into a liminal space where sleep should be but isn't. The illness of the mind persists, perhaps intensified by the cold, definitely by exhaustion. Sleep becomes a stranger I chase but never quite catch. Rest remains theoretical, a concept I remember but can't quite grasp.

Rewind. Play. One tape, on repeat, becomes my anchor in this sea of displacement. The deck's mechanical simplicity provides comfort—a clear cause-and-effect, a predictable pattern in an unpredictable world.

The specter of unattended meetings and paused work looms overhead, not from neglect but from necessity. Creative aspirations mock me from a distance while my energy meter blinks empty. I'm running on fumes, watching the gauge drop lower, and wondering how long it will be until the complete shutdown.

With that, I reduce existence to its essential functions: reading, eating, and sleeping. Rewind. Each book becomes a path to elsewhere, each meal a small victory, each moment of rest a precious resource to be hoarded. The simplicity brings peace, even as it highlights how far I've drifted from regular operation.

This crisis strips everything bare, forcing me to face what's been lurking beneath the surface. It reveals a truth too bright to look at directly - until now when there's nowhere else to look. In this foreign city, in this frozen air, in this state of perpetual exhaustion, I finally see the full extent of my mental state, mapped out in high definition against the London gray.