Sunday, 27 December 2015

Home

It's been about two weeks since my last post about Australia. As I'm writing this, my life has made a 30 degree turn. I changed from summer to winter within 12 hours. At 6 o'clock in the morning, I found myself breathing in the icy air of the Netherlands again after abandoning it for 6 months. Welcome home, at the other side of the world. It's as if nothing really happened. About three hours after arrival, I worked at the shop. Four hours later and I'm cleaning the house. Ten hours later and I'm gift-wrapping my Christmas presents. Another fourteen and I'm just dwelling in the house in my pajamas, I don't even remember what I was doing. One day later, after much procrastination, I finally managed to kick myself in the butt and start unpacking my luggage. Old clothes have found their way in plastic bags, drawers have made place for even more books and my closet is slightly rearranged, waiting for entanglement two months later. Today, pajamas again, and I've given in to boredom by starting to watch Once Upon a Time.

Everything just happened like that. Snap, and I'm back to reality. It's as if I never travelled to the other side of the world. Of course, what did I expect? No matter where we fly to, we take our baggage with us. Before leaving Sydney, I stayed three days in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. There are stories about New Zealand, Australia and Malaysia that are still left untold. While packing all of my old and new stuff, I didn't forget to pack my stories too. They are there, somewhere, in the corner of my mind. But once I finish typing them down, what will become of me and my writing? What will I write about? What exciting pictures will I take for Project365? Big plans, big dreams, but little motivation and destination.

Don't take me wrong, it's okay to be home. I've flown so much over the past few months, it's almost insane to think that 6 months ago I was thrilled to realise that I would make my first long flight without my parents. It's more that everything will fall into routine again once I'm here. I feel drained, despite having had the opportunity to take some rest during Christmas. My laptop has died, and so I can't do much but type. Not much tinkering with software. I wonder when was the last time I've drawn something; that was probably when I attended UNSW's Art and Drawing Society's weekly sketch meets. When was the last time I wrote a poem? My second poetry slam performance on the second Tuesday of December in Sydney. When did I last touch a piano? In KL, where I couldn't bring my fingers to utter anything but 'Frère Jacques' because I had forgotten the three other songs I could ever play by heart: 'Numb', 'La Valse d'Amelie' and 'While your lips are still red'.

It's almost New Year, and with that, many new resolutions will meander through some dreamer's head. In the end we all want the same thing: to better ourselves. I've tried so long to heal that I'm starting to wonder if anything I ever did helped at all. They say we will always stumble and fall; that in the end we always stand up again and start walking. What's the point of walking when there's no destination? They say it's not always about the end of the road, but the road itself. On my road I see nothing much. Work and study. Work and study, That's how it's always been since I was a kid. The difference is that I'm turning my ugliness inside-out for the world to see, even though it's just a matter of time before I go in hiding again. But I don't want that, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of people telling me that what I feel is wrong or not as bad/real as it seems. No one has the right to judge what I feel, or to take that away from me. We live in a generation of twitter storms and freedom of speech, yet people always seem to feel privileged to say: "Shut the fuck up and stand back in line".

I didn't go to university to have my childhood repeat on me. I didn't study engineering to stand back in line and think inside the box. I didn't start writing and stand in front of the microphone just to have my voice shoved back into my throat. Don't tell me what to feel or where to head. Don't tell me how to dress or how to dye my hair. The only one you'll ever have to look at is the one facing you in the mirror. Judge that, not me. If you don't like my rock music, turn on your own beloved radio. If you think my words are too depressing, write your own. Home isn't where the heart is, it's where we feel safe to be ourselves.






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