|The memory I want to forget when I leave is saying|
goodbye. I'm just not sure if they'll be anything
left of me by the time I arrive at the moment.
It's to the point it's too hard to talk about leaving with anyone. Considering in one month, most of us are packing our bags for "home" and, most of them are happy to do so. My friends' mouths water over foods they miss, and the arrival home in time for Christmas movies and spirits.While I do miss all of these things, I do not have the same fervor to abandon this world I've called home the last four months. This adventure which has made me, shaped me, and where the city of Brussels has become as much a part of me as I a part of it. But these words aren't enough to fix this perfect mistake of what's not meant to be.
So I exhale, but my chest hurts, my tears burn, and I know I'm gripping on to every moment left. I dangle from this edge of reality as the ground crumbles under the weight of my dilemma, and where the winds of change blow stronger everyday to loosen my grip, and rip me from this world. I know the day will come when I can hold on no more, and everything I've ever wanted to be, disappears into the abyss. I'm holding on for dear life, and I know I'm not strong enough to weather the coming storm..
So I sit here surrounded by a mountain of wet tissues trying to convey in words what I'm feeling. Sitting in Brussels, trying to be reasonable, trying to make sense of why I have some strange addiction to this place when others don't. A place I feel happy in, a place that I smile in, a place that when I found it, allowed me to feel something I never felt in the U.S. - For the first time, I felt at home, I felt like I could be me. A place which I felt a calling to. A puzzle short one piece, waiting for it to be found, for me to find my fit. It's that feeling of completion when it all comes together, and the picture becomes clear.
This clarity keels me over in tears, closes my eyes, crosses my arms- I'm holding it all in so that I don't fall apart. I'm beginning to divide, and nothing I do can stop the pieces from shattering the dream. A dream that no one else can see, one that shall cease to exist when I awake in one month.
So this is where stories go when we become victims of our own foolish plans. Now I'm too scared to let go. Too scared to hope again, that maybe somewhere out there, something better will come out of the tragedy. It's not melodrama, it's that I'm scared of my worst fear coming true: the story ending.