I miss cold beers with a fresh hint of honey.
Frozen green grapes.
Long conversations under cherry blossom trees.
Reckless driving to Spanish Banks.
Midnight snacks at Pita Pit.
Philosophizing the universe into a context that we understood.
I miss knowing with the sheer intensity of my entire being who I was, what I stood for and where I was going to go.
I miss the quiet simplicity of genuinely complex and nuanced friendships.
I watched recently this video; The Innovation of Loneliness, and of all things, this one line stuck: because if we don’t know how to be alone, all we’ll ever know is lonely.
In this city, I’m lonely. I’m unfulfilled but I don’t know how much of that is a reflection of this city. I don’t know where it stops and where I begin. I’ve become this twisted fairytale.
I miss the comforts of home, yet I know, with a burning intensity that home is gone. It will never be the same again. I think when you move on from something, or someone, what hurts most is the knowledge that things will never be the same again.
But abstract knowledge is different from actually confronting reality.
No matter how enlightened, no matter how many years have passed, I think there will always be a part that aches, burns, writhes and feels empty. I miss winding paths, holding hands on ski-lifts. Laughing about Harry Potter references. Having private jokes that nobody else will ever get.
And the thing is, nobody else will quite understand why I equate moving cities to breaking up with someone, but that is what it is to me. One of my friends blithely explained, “your exes have sex with people who aren’t you”, and that’s what it feels like. My home has moved on and all I feel is screwed over with my love for a city that doesn’t feel.
The problem is, we equate too much memories to things that can’t and won’t ever love us back. But paradoxically, it’s sad to live indifferently. And so I go on missing, go on aching, go on trying to philosophize, because to do otherwise would make me someone else.
I started running to feel.