# 12 || les temps sont durs pour les rêveurs

 Travelling seems to be trying this time around, because I'm not trying, not really, not at all. When I was a little girl and we went away, I would fixate my imagination on the grass that was greener elsewhere and wish I were back in a land of static and familiarity, where perhaps instead of laying in a library somewhere in the north-eastern region of Tasmania or watching a gamelan orchestra in Morocco, I would've be in English class or playing kanga cricket on the school oval. I don't know why I do this, but I've always found it hard to count lucky stars when all I can think about is that damn gorgeous pasture where better beings frolick, and suddenly the airplane high-in-the-sky that I was riding begins to crash down, down, down. I wasn't really ready to leave Melbourne because for once, I actually needed to get away, I needed to clear my head. Wanderlust is wicked when it's a loose wish you didn't reeeally want to come true. The clichés continue to unfold ... Happinessisonlyrealwhenshared, lifeisn'tfair, youcantalwaysgetwhatyouwant, nothingworthhavingevercomeseasy. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it! Because all I seem to be doing is putting Noah and the Whale's Blue Skies on repeat, trying not to cry, and not trying to not be a terrible person.