On seeking refuge in the din of Babel

Friday night found me on Oxford Street, taking a dash down the red tunnel of double deckers and black cabs on my bike. This is what I do for an adrenaline rush; the city spills onto the street and it becomes a neon obstacle course of burka-clad women toting Gucci bags and exquisitely hip fashion students and day-tripping teenagers and suited men shouting plans for the evening into their mobiles. And they all jostle for space with the smell of caramelized nuts roasting outside the Tube stations and the seeping miasma of underground effluvia; the din of a thousand SALE signs and the Babel of every language spoken by humankind. The surge of speed and noise and bright light and colour is a powerful stimulant. I can think of no better way to distract myself from that awful abyss that lately yawns in my life, the one I run all over town from ballet to Bikram yoga to acting class and back again to avoid: Where am I going? And when will I get on stage again? This awful voice at the base of my skull is beginning to deafen me, and not even a marathon can drown it out, which means that it must, finally, be faced. And facing myself in the mirror at Pineapple or in a yoga studio has become easier, but in every other mirror I still see no reflection of the woman I know I can be.