Living Next to a Cemetery in London
Living Next to a Cemetery in London (And Slowly Losing My Will to Live)
A fan once asked me where I get my inspiration from. First of all, I love that I had a fan. Past tense. Possibly dead now. Maybe even buried in the cemetery I’m about to talk about. It was partly living next to a cemetery in london, part just having a questionable imagination.
Anyway, here’s the answer: I get inspiration from fear. Specifically, from waking up at stupid-o’clock, looking out the window of my London flat, and seeing a fog-soaked graveyard that looks like the opening credits of every low-budget horror film ever made.
London: Where I Accidentally Became the Star of a Victorian Ghost Story
Living next to a cemetery in London is a vibe. And by vibe, I mean a low-level psychological breakdown stretched out over several months. The morning fog doesn’t “roll in” here… it creeps. Like it has unfinished business. One minute you’re sipping coffee, the next you’re half-convinced you saw a Victorian child with a cracked porcelain doll standing by a gravestone.
I didn’t move to London for the cemetery. I moved for work. For life. For chaos. But what I got was 6am soul-existential dread served with a side of ghost mist. You step outside, and the air itself is wet with disappointment and the whisper of lost hopes.
Florence: I Live Above a Pizza Shop, Because I Love Myself
Contrast this with Florence. In Florence, I live above a pizza shop. I wake up to the smell of dough, garlic, and possibility. In London, I wake up to fog, frost, and the overwhelming feeling that I’m next.
Let me put it this way: one flat fills me with joy and melted mozzarella. The other fills me with dread and the distant echo of someone named “Agatha” looking for her long-lost locket.
I Am Not Cool With Cemeteries
I am not one of those people who “loves cemeteries” and does arty photo shoots while leaning against a tombstone. Nor do I stroll through graveyards in the moonlight pondering the transience of life. I run. If something brushes my leg and I didn’t invite it, I’m gone. Purse in the air. Full sprint. Maybe even screaming high pitched.
But I’m also not a total coward. I live next to one, after all. Which puts me somewhere between “goth-adjacent weirdo” and “barely-holding-it-together espresso junkie.”
Inspiration? Try Survival Instinct
People ask about inspiration like it’s this magical moment where the muse descends. Mine doesn’t descend. It sprints in at dawn screaming, “You’re surrounded by corpses!” That’s not inspiration. That’s the survival instinct. And it’s surprisingly productive.
Fog. Graves. Early mornings. It all comes together in a perfect storm of nope. That’s what fuels me. That’s what makes me write. Not beauty. Not love. Just the raw, unfiltered panic of looking out your window and thinking, “I need to move.”
Final Thoughts from the Grave (Adjacent)
If you’ve ever lived next to a cemetery and you haven’t completely lost your mind, congratulations… you’re stronger than me. But if you’ve felt the creeping weirdness, the unshakable sense that your morning coffee is being shared with someone named Edward who died in 1873, then welcome. You’re among friends. Slightly paranoid, mildly disturbed friends.
Leave a comment. Tell me your ghost stories. Or just validate my trauma (which later become oh so real). Either way, I’m still here. Still caffeinated. Still not walking through that cemetery after dark.