Coming home from however far for however long isn’t usually like this. Often my first impression is underwhelming, of the infinite golden plains and sky that often seems perpetually overcast upon landing. A country I once accepted wholeheartedly suddenly seems inadequate and I wonder why I am not anywhere else. But this time was different : riding home just after midnight with Mama, to a home-cooked meal and my kittens who had long forgotten I ever existed --- the familiarity was nice, but my expectations were exceeded and I think that’s what was so magical. But there is danger in that realisation, because expectations weren’t made to be met, instead they encourage a sense of disappointment before anything has even happened --- because the truth is you didn’t really know what you wanted in the first place. You just thought you did. And out of the million different happy endings, you didn’t get the one you fixated on but that doesn’t mean you’re not in the middle of a fairytale. It’s not the end until it’s the end, you know? And trust me, you’ll know.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to set the world on fire. But, at the same time - I didn’t want anybody to know it was me. I’ve always found some kind of shame in acknowledging my own existence, for all its mistakes and all its negativity and all its imperfections -- I guess you could say I don’t even know the meaning of self-love. For every positive can be, not outweighed but matched, by something negative. Sometimes the constant whirring of my mind alongside my vivid imagination frightens the living daylights out of me. It doesn’t seem there’s much to do but run. Run and remain remote, away from the temptation of judging others subsequent to judging myself. I can’t apologise enough, but I can try to be better. This is my year, and I’m going to try and try again. For as long as it takes.