Sunday, December 9, 2012


Leaving your home, knowing you won't be back for months, is hard.
Coming back is also hard.
Letting yourself become invested is hard.
Falling for someone is hard.
Making serious decisions is hard.
Leaving people behind is hard.
All evidence suggests life is hard. (Ten points to Gryffindor for pointing out the obvious)

And it's so annoying when all you want is to be a carefree twenty-something, but your brain never really shuts up long enough to forget all these things.

You think taking a year off to indulge in that carefree side is going to make everything easier, get it out of your system, but really once you get a taste for that life, the "reality" you knew before becomes this weird alien concept. And trying to get back into that is...well, hard.

Frankly, I don't even know why I'm trying. Part of me just wants to pack up and get straight back on a plane to London. Another part of me wants to pack up and go straight to NZ for a new adventure. And then there's the part of me that knows no matter where I go, or what I do, I'll always feel like this. I'll always struggle to consolidate my life into a whole. I've had lives on three continents, crossed oceans, and every journey irrevocably changes you, and every time you return, the places have changed too. It's transient. And if you're always coming and going, then you can never belong anywhere.

So, what do you do? Do you give up and lose yourself to mediocrity because it's easier? Do you continue to flit about the world, tearing yourself into little pieces every time? Do you wait for someone to give you a reason to stay?  What do you do?

I love Sydney, I do. I love the beaches, and the harbour, and the history of my life here - my friends, my family, the familiarity of growing up. My restlessness is not a reflection on any of that. But I hate the job, and the complacency, and just how narrowed life becomes.

I don't know. I guess I feel like I discovered a part of me overseas that I feel I can't sustain here, and I really liked that part of me. The thought of losing it devastates me. And I felt part of something, something fun and filled with so much energy. There were days that were utter shit, yes, but there was potential. And now I'm just treading water. And for what? I'm doing it so I can get "experience", so I can put it on a piece of paper that will one day lead to a career, something I don't even want.

And I know what you'll say. That's growing up. That's life. That's reality. But why? Why should that be it? Who decides these things? And why do we just fall in line with it?

It all seems so ridiculously contrived.

Music: Skinny love - Bon Iver

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