as for me, I am watercolour. I wash off.
i had a plan to be something wonderful.
…
I have been home - Victoria home - for over a year.
The last journal entry from my travel journal was on October 6, 2008.
“It’s finally today. Montreal to Victoria.
I waited so anxiously for today to arrive, and now that it’s here I don’t want it anymore.
Things can be so simple, and if I learned anything in Gulu, it’s that they should be.
How, then, do I get so caught up?
Maybe more confused than ever.
Maybe I have a clearer sense of who I am, but I am just as lost in terms of what I want.
It shouldn’t be this hard, should it? Just to know what I want?”
and…
“Sitting at gate C29 with everyone else heading to Victoria, I look around and wonder if I look like I’m from Victoria. Do I look like I’m from anywhere, anymore?
My hair is tangled, long and wavy, skin more tanned than it should be for October.
My jeans are ripped and tainted brown from too few washes and months of everyday wear.
My shoes, Kasia’s hand-me-downs, are stretched and old and a tiny bit too small.
My blue scarf, bought my last day in Kampala, is my only new item and it smells like home. It smells like where I want to be, where I wish I was still.
Home.”
“My last night in Montreal: falling asleep between K. and D. was about the happiest place I could be. They are my two best happinesses.”
Last lines:
“Our plane is about to land.
This journey is over.
I know that I am a stronger, smarter, more intuitive person than when I left.
I am grateful for every single moment. More than words can say.
I know,
I know,
I know:
That only I can save me.”
…
A. tells me I think about the past too much. He says I should look forward and not back. He is probably right.
How do I, though, when I still miss so many things/people/places so much?
It hurts my heart. Every day still.
I was worried this feeling would fade.
It hasn’t.
…
I have good friends. I have a good job. I live in a nice place with good roommates.
I have a plan for the future.
I’m happy.
Something is missing, something huge, and I can’t figure out what it is.
Am I just impatient?
Being reflective hurts, sometimes.
.
