A hundred hours after the plane touched down on British soil and I returned back to my homeland, cabin fever has set in.
The first three days were filled with jet lag and family catch-ups, overdue cuddles and exchanging of gifts, plates of beans on toast and scrapings of Marmite, weary smiles through faces that were half asleep.
Then the inevitable venture into town came about and reverse culture shock set in. Crowds of English-speakers and huge supermarkets overwhelmed me; British cynicism and pessimism took away my smile and brought back those feelings of isolation I remember from long before.
I now find myself wrapped up in a US-bought hoodie, under a Mexican blanket, shut away with only the sounds of Janis Joplin in the air escaping from my brother’s room, wishing I was somewhere else, giggling over Juicy Boy and sipping Peach Schnapps with her, lying in bed and sharing kisses with him, exploring subways, skyscrapers and street food in some of the biggest cities in the world.
I was prepared for the obvious questions:
Did you enjoy it?
What do you miss the most?
I wasn’t prepared for the one that’s been asked on repeat:
What are you going to do now?
I had plans. It was all worked out.
Spend the summer in Wales catching up with friends and family. Then move to South Korea in August.
But thanks to a hasty rejection due to what an ex once dubbed my “paper lungs”, my life is wide open. No fixed dates. No countries. No idea.
New dreams to save for? Yes.
But how to make them a reality? I don’t know yet.
Emails to France, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Portugal, Singapore, Japan, Hong Kong, Korea.
Who knows where I’ll end up? Right now it doesn’t matter.
My only preference is that it’s anywhere but here.
I love my family and friends; Missed their love, affection and support so much … but I knew the truth all along: I can’t live here. This place is only Limbo. Limbo between each adventure; Limbo between different chapters of my life; Limbo between dreams.
