It happened eventually. I got to that point when my visits in my home country start to resemble to any other trip in the world. There is a clear disconnection I now experience when I return for family visits.
I felt like that when I arrived in Bucharest at evening time a few days ago and despite the fact that I've seen it all before, after all I spent nearly 6 years in this city, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I'm just a tourist. Yes, there is a sense of deja vu, but sometimes I get that when I visit the same place a few times. A vague familiarity and yet a certainty that home is somewhere else.
I am restless every time I visit. Like I am a murderer returning to the crime scene. There are a lot of hidden memories that start creeping up when I return home and sometimes I just feel like I want to run away. I am more convinced now that I have to skip Christmas this year and hide somewhere random, like in the jungles of Vietnam maybe. Strangely, I feel more at ease venturing around the world and losing myself in the crowds. It just occurred to me that this must be the feeling people who are born in the wrong body must have... Like a stranger with their own kind...
I am enjoying the time I spend with my family. I still have a family and I cherish these precious moments: they are still alive and healthy and (here's when I can't help but thinking about the passing of time and that they won't be around forever) that they love me and I love them. But that doesn't stop me from looking forward to going back to where I no longer feel like a tourist or like an intruder: home, to London...
I felt like that when I arrived in Bucharest at evening time a few days ago and despite the fact that I've seen it all before, after all I spent nearly 6 years in this city, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I'm just a tourist. Yes, there is a sense of deja vu, but sometimes I get that when I visit the same place a few times. A vague familiarity and yet a certainty that home is somewhere else.
I am restless every time I visit. Like I am a murderer returning to the crime scene. There are a lot of hidden memories that start creeping up when I return home and sometimes I just feel like I want to run away. I am more convinced now that I have to skip Christmas this year and hide somewhere random, like in the jungles of Vietnam maybe. Strangely, I feel more at ease venturing around the world and losing myself in the crowds. It just occurred to me that this must be the feeling people who are born in the wrong body must have... Like a stranger with their own kind...
I am enjoying the time I spend with my family. I still have a family and I cherish these precious moments: they are still alive and healthy and (here's when I can't help but thinking about the passing of time and that they won't be around forever) that they love me and I love them. But that doesn't stop me from looking forward to going back to where I no longer feel like a tourist or like an intruder: home, to London...
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