the return.

It's been a little too long, and my passion's gone away. I don't know how I let it slipped away; all I know is I took my eyes off it for a little while and when I turned back, it just wasn't there.


I've returned home, and oddly, it had been harder than leaving. When I left, I think I knew deep down inside that home will always be here, that it would stay, and that I could return to it anytime and things would still be the same. In most ways, it is.

But leaving, leaving the place which I had created stories of my life in those very eight months, that was hard. My friend, Valentine, pointed out to us: You see how it took us only one time to say 'hello', but we've been saying goodbye for two weeks now. The final gathering a week before our exams, the trip right after our exams, a last meeting...

Those two sweet little pretty weeks...

I'm still a little torn inside. Being back here, where everything's so familiar, yet... It's like they say,

"It's a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what's changed, is you."

— Eric Roth 

I hang around, and these old walls breathe and whisper to me, reminding me of the dreams the younger me had. The feelings she once felt. And I feel them again.

But those were her dreams. They can't be mine anymore, for I've reached them. Now when I lie down in bed and close my eyes, instead of the dreams that I had once filled my mine with, they're now memories. And I reach out, though I can't grab hold of them, I can taste them on the tip of my tongue.

I know I'm living through memories, which means that I'm living in the past. Have been ever since I caught that cab which took me to the airport. I sat down in the departure lounge thinking of you. All of you, and you.

I remember everything. I don't want to ever forget. I only hope that it meant something to you too, and sometimes I wonder if you miss me. I know it probably wasn't the best, but it was still something.

I listen to all the songs, Lighters, especially, over and over again. Living in the past makes me miserable, but deep down inside, I know it will past, but it's just not time yet when I still want to remember.

To help, I think I'm going to escape again. The only way I know -through books. Bury myself between all those pages in this quiet little town. I even almost didn't quite know how to do that again.


Maybe I've come home to find myself again.

"The hardest part of ending is starting again."

— Linkin Park