Today I found pieces of my old self neatly stacked in boxes and baskets. A passport full of stamps. Most of them from Singapore, the transit point for so many of my travels. A few leftover coins of foreign currencies, metro cards from cities across the globe. Melbourne, Barcelona, Hongkong, Sydney.
Bursting journals – pages filled with detailed accounts of the everyday instances of a life on planes, a life of in between places; scribbled down in a hurry. My god, I could almost smell the humid incense laden air of Asia right there, standing in the dusty attic.
Growing pain, all of us know it, some feel it but never would I have imagined that growing out of your mind could leave an aftertaste this bitter. Two years and 11 months, almost to the day, my excitement for the world so raw. What pain did I know? Fiercely optimistic, restless and no doubt in my mind that harboring a physical home is for boring people.
There is something so powerful about embracing change, welcoming it with open arms. Three years later I feel haunted by it. I long for persistence, routine, a save place. The human instinct is to avoid change, stick to what we know. So who am I to deny my nature?
Loss feels like the unpredictable current of a foreign ocean. Loss of identity though, is confusing and unsettling, how do you grieve the metaphysical?
My passport, my metro cards, my journals. Remnants of a life lived to the brim. A life consisting of a series of adventures. A good life. Oh sweet nostalgia, haven’t you paid me enough visits to last two lifetimes?
My old self, my new self, what even makes the difference? I now harbor them both. The venturer and the nurturer.