Tomorrow I get on a plane to San Francisco. Which, incase you weren’t aware, is neither my birth place or my home. This trip is coming to an end. There’s only so much more pretending I can do. In 4 days, and an awful lot of time zone confusion later, I will be back on English soil. But that’s not home.
I want to go home. I have a longing to be back. Home is Sydney. Home is the house I shared with one of my close friends. Home is long sandy beaches with sunsets that make you go “Ahhh”. Home is where my friends are, the ones which took me to yoga and taught me to surf, the ones who break in through my back door just to make sure I’m still alive, the ones who make sure everyday is an adventure. Home is where your heart is and I have firmly left mine on the Northern Beaches, which was rather careless I have to admit.
I wasn’t stupid enough to not realise that my Australian dream had to end, but I was naive enough to think that it wouldn’t feel like I’m loosing a little part of myself. Although I know I am who I am due to my experiences and really Australia has only added to the multicoloured, multicultural myriad that is my life. A pit stop on a much longer path. And it will always be there. Land masses that large don’t just disappear.
More indescribable things change however, people change and circumstances change. This is the weathering of time. So even if I had another year, and another and another, none of those years would be the same as the previous one. And that is the nature of the beast. You can’t predict it, you can only follow the embassy rules and find your happiness one country at a time.