It’s May. MAY.
That’s nearly halfway through the year. Remember this post?
Re-reading it reminds me of all of the experiences I had last year. Experiences that feel like they just happened, but then I read back and I feel so distant from that person.
Not all that much has changed.
I still work at the social media agency. Still love my workmates. Still have fun nearly every day there.
I’m still single. I’m still not acting my age.
I moved. In with a friend in North Bondi. Into a huge, open-plan flat with hardwood floors. I inherited a cat. He peed on my bed as a welcoming gesture.
I’m going to Uluru in June. And the States in September. It’s been nearly two and a half years since I’ve been home and I cannot wait to see how grown up my twin niece and nephew are.
Somewhere along the way, I’m trying to remind myself that I wanted to write a book this year. No, I wanted to finish a book. One I haven’t touched since quite possibly January. I want to become a photographer so badly, but I’m afraid to fail. I want to paint again, but I’m afraid to fail. So I colour in an adult colouring book. I do it to calm myself or shut off my brain instead of watching mindless TV. Also, because I know I won’t fail.
What do I want? I think I know, but then there’s a hint of uncertainty that I can’t quite shake.
My favourite pastime is still spending Saturday mornings at Bondi Farmer’s Market. Diving under the surf after a long run still makes me feel like a brand new person. When my friends talk about their new relationships, it gives me a kind of deep-seated content I’ve never experienced before; the kind of happy that washes over you like an evening breeze on a warm summer night.
I need to find out how to tell the rest of the Central America story. But, it really ended in that hostel for me. That was what I needed. Then there was Bali. There are stories there too – motorbikes and rooftops and days I wasn’t so sure I would survive at all.
I’m in the final stages of applying for permanent residency. Nothing will make that feel real until I’m holding the grant letter in my hands. After all of these years of trying, the agencies and people that messed me around, and the fact that only once did I wonder if it meant Australia wasn’t my place after all.
There’s a lot of nothing going on. But then, something about it all feels quite perfect.
