I’ve been back a week now.
A week out of Europe and a week in America.
So why does that feel so odd to me? I was born here. I lived here my whole life.
Why do I feel so out of place?
I’m sipping my coffee
Taking drags of my cigarette
In the same seat on the verandah as I always have.
Why does it feel so miserable?
I can’t put my finger on it, but something is different -
But at the same time, things are exactly the god damn same.
The only thing slightly different is my dog got a little bit plumper and we got new pillows.
It’s 8 o’clock in the morning and I don’t know what I’m doing.
Soon it will be 11o’clock and I still won’t know what I’m doing.
I’ll probably still be drinking this shitty home-made coffee and devoured half a pack of cigarettes. I was so full of passion over there -
Like a wave of nostalgic creativity had once returned.
I was a little, fragile, underage girl in a foreign land.
I had to take care of myself.
I’ve never been one to yearn for responsibility, but now that it’s gone,
I don’t know what to do.
I’m 18 in a few short monthsand of course some responsibility comes with that.
But in reality, I’m still going to be 18,
Living at home,
With undecided plans for my future.
No sustainable income and a car with no gas.
Where's the responsibiity in that?
Maybe that’s the problem-
This house is no longer my home.
In my mind,
I am homeless.
The globe is my home.
I’ve never felt more at home sitting in a cafe
Eating cream filled croissants in the middle of a busy Paris street.
I’ve never felt more at home glancing up at a clock tower and checking the time in Austria.
I’ve never felt more at home wandering in and out of the canals in Italy.
It sounds crazy, but it’s true.
I feel as if I were plucked from my dream, and flicked back to reality.
I was dying for a break
And now I’m dying for something to happen.