Migrated. Left my homeland. No destination to call home.
Walking the streets of London, shedding tears at most corners, why did I not see this coming?
I left Australia, sure that I would find my way, stand on my own two feet and reach for that apple, rather than wait for it to fall from the tree. After two months of travel and being on top of the world, the wind on my back as I would sprint across the beach front in the early hours of sunrise, I find myself sitting here in an unfamiliar lounge room that does not belong to me, nor do I belong to it. Couches are almost black, potentially the same colour as my spirit at this point in my life.
I cannot seem to bring myself to smile, it would be fake, it would be a card in the deck I do not wish to play. I feel like I was a somebody back in Australia, now I don’t even recognise my own reflection in the mirror.
I can’t believe I hated home all these years, I can’t believe I sat there wasting precious moments of time, miserable in a place I can actually call home and now miss so immensely.
I knew it would be difficult but never in a million years did I expect my spirit to endure this type of experience and heartache.
A person who has brought so much joy and positive energy into my life will be in arms reach in just a few months. Prior to this special arrival, I would like to have myself together and not be a barrel of nerves and emotions. How does one scrape themselves off the fry pan they seem to have stuck to?
Positive thinking must be the only way, I must learn to roll with the silent punches; the rejections from both house rentals and job opportunities.
There must be more I must learn about myself.
Oh the challenges one faces, the choices one makes, the life one leads.
Keep walking the unfamiliar and eventually you’ll recognise your reflection.
Migration: A tough road.