I have not been back here since April. Seven days to contemplate exactly where I need to be. I am still trying to strike a balance between the city and the sea.This place always spoilt me. There were days where I forgot about how important the weather was. It was always just there, like the warmth was somehow built into each season.
Then there was a shift. I am not sure when it happened, but the idea of coming back home lost its currency. I no longer dreamt of what it would be like to be back there again. My feet got used to being in boots and the cold was just another thread woven into the fabric of this city. I saw eye to eye with it and it never questioned why I came running into its arms with my tail between my legs. It let me be. It kept me safe. I was comfortable being a stranger here.
It got to the point where coming home was never as stirring as I thought it would be. I would plan my time off and fly back with hopes high at the potential of being back and feeling something again. Two days into the trip and I was done with it and pining for the anonymity of the city. The familiarity deflated me. It was unsurprising, predictable and it judged me for turning my back on it. In return, I resented it for not evolving with me. We had a grown apart and now we were strangers.
That’s the strangest feeling of all, feeling detached from the place you called home for over five years. I wanted it to feel like home, but that is a feeling that can’t be bought. It either is or it isn’t. Looking back, it seems like just another pinpoint on the map.
Still though, as strange as it feels, I have no other place worthy of calling home. Regardless of past resentments and current criticisms, when my feet hit the ground I know exactly where I am.