"only in dreams can i hear you speak. when i wake up, i feel 20 years old again. only when i rise from bed do i realize that it wasn’t real. four summers have gone without the same life that provided so much energy. that barrier is distance and mental states."
It’s my birthday and I miss everyone in Melbourne and I’m never sure I’ll feel at home in Portland.
I wonder if it’s healthy to have so much nostalgia, but I’ve never ever felt as fulfilled as I did there. I don’t know how to make this city home or if it ever will, or if I was a better person when I was in Melbourne.
Sometimes I dream I’m back in Melbourne and relieved to be back with old friends. Other times I see faces that look like friends and my mind shoots off to day dreams about catching up in this unfamiliar city.
It’s been a pretty shit year for me. I’m 22 fucking years old and I feel I’ve already lived the best years of my life.
The haunting thing about this little memento is I’ve escaped overt Australian racism, utes, and decent weather, but I don’t want to be here.