I am a little scared.
I have been left by the side of the road in a strange city at 4am and fifteen under. I’ve stood cowering in my pack, locked out, as lightening raged over head and spat rain like slurs. I’ve been beside a bump-by mugging, hidden money in my bra just in case and tied myself up in my sleep to feel a little closer to safe.
I’ve retched myself inside out all alone on a chill marble floor and felt like the world might just have pulled back in disgust. I’ve barricaded my doors to stop the bad man getting back back in, got lost off the map, walked the wrong way on the wrong day, eyed a gun barrel nervously…
None of it made me feel like this.
The end is coming fast. I have ten days left and then I am going home. My ‘to do list’ is building in my head, my monolith etched with fears – no house, no job, no clue, no real idea what else I might do.
Home is half cooked word for me, something sweet but hard to swallow. It has been so long since I have made one of my own, had one to hang a hat in, that I don’t quite remember what it looked like.
I know I will find welcome. I have people and places to call me back but I want to try for something a little different, even if it just the same something that everyone else really wants.
I am dreaming on a man who might just build it with me, but I haven’t got to see him yet, and my longing is a beautiful pain as I try, to be patient, to be hopeful and wait.
I am tuning back into the UK and everyone has a sad story to tell. Recession, depression, no work to be found. No love left in the town. The griefs of their histories, their futures, chills me before I’ve put a toe into the cold time, the space that might feel like an after pulled in the wake everything good. It’s a dense water rising, choking me before I have time to take a breath.
I am trying to feel my sadness, my fear. but keep it in my bags with everything else that I carry till it’s time to unpack. I tell myself that I’ve carried a lot more a lot further, that this need not swallow me.
I’m talking to myself the way I need you to speak to me, of passion, of hope, of futures that defy the odds and prove that things can be different. I’m telling myself I might just be the exception, that flowers bloom in the mud.
I’m telling myself I am a heart, a soul, a spirit not a statistic, and that the impossible is possible, even back there.