So, a warning: this is one of those very very few posts that I have where it’s neither humorous nor informative nor preaching my principles nor complete randomness. Because, you know, it’s just one of those days where I’m so down and I just need a place to vent out.
I currently live in this place, this city, that is not where I grew up. I’ve said it so many times in this blog that I just moved here when I started college. And you know how they say that first impressions are often entirely wrong? I think what I’m experiencing in this city was not included in that statistics.
You see, the first time I stepped into this city, I was completely in awe of how urban it is. There’s something intimidating about it and I always felt like I should be on guard every time. Even when I sleep. I could’ve adjusted to it. I am now kinda.
But there is this…constant part in my life that I really hate. I can’t tell what it is as I feel like I can only talk about this constant openly to my most trusted friends.
But know that I hate it. I hate how it always ruins everything. That it’s a walking time bomb that could explode any minute. That I have to tiptoe carefully all the time because who knows where the shards it left on its wake are.
Because of that and the unfortunate circumstances this constant part of my life brings, I always felt like the place that I’m in is a prison. In a sense that I’m helpless and wherever I run away to, I still have to go back to this prison. I can either wrap myself in a hopeful bubble or hide underneath a mask of happiness that I’ve woven for myself these past two years. But my feet is and always will be standing on this prison ground, ankles chained to it for three more years and I’ve been counting off the days that have passed. And counting down the days I have left before I’ll be free.
To be honest, I tried to give this place a chance. It’s not this city’s fault that I have this constant part of myself that I hate. But I still don’t like this place. The tiny room where a prisoner is locked in didn’t wish for him to be here. It did not throw him into it. But he is here and the prisoner will never like the tiny room he’s imprisoned in. Same thing to me.
At my lowest points, I cry silently and the one thought ringing in my mind is, “I wanna go home.”
But where is home?
When I am free of this place, do I return to the place of my childhood and expect everything is the same? No. I don’t.
I can go back there whenever I can but the world will always move forward. As should I.
So maybe I’ll have to find it. The place I could call home. It doesn’t have to be a literal place, I guess. Just somewhere out of here for starters. A place where I can wrap my hopeful bubble and that same mask of happiness, but in a different ground. A better ground.
Happy morning/noon/night, everyone. 🏠