A teacher in a class we took when we still had a different plan to change everything, told us that a good day somewhere far from home would be really, really good. And the bad days, they would be worse.
And its true, maybe more than I ever imagined it could be. Its been almost two months, and some days are so blindingly beautiful. they make the veins at my wrist fizz. They’re yellow at the edges and they shine like the sun and all I want to do is write and take pictures and listen to a song that sounds the way I feel. But the bad days are there too and they’re harder than days have any right to be. I don’t want to write about them. And that means I should, I suppose.
Today I had to clench my fists so tight the fingers left crescent-moons on my palms to stop myself from sobbing. Nothing particular happened- just another day where all it seems to do is rain, another menu where I don’t understand what I’m reading, another day of being far away from everything that feels easy.
December is a difficult month, coming from somewhere where you’re taught that the sun will be shining, and the wind will knot your hair, and everyone will be together. My friend got married in a forest with so many people I love, and I haven’t seen a real tree in months.
Some days, I take it in my stride. Somedays we walk the streets and talk about all the sore spots and how much we miss his dogs. Other days we forgot to feel anything but lucky.
This has been a hard year. I have learnt to say goodbye to things no one should ever have to say goodbye to, and I’ve had to say it again, and again, and again. I’ve found myself in so much new, living in 3 different cities, and feeling a different kind of strange in all of them. I’ve learnt to hold on. To hold on tight to the good days, and even tighter to the bad, like maybe they’re the bit of salt that makes it all come together.
This year has been so many things, and I don’t know if I ever get any better at any of it, but at least I’m feeling it all.