unfinished, 2.

What is it with home and bringing out the nostalgic insomniac within me?

It’s 2.53am.

I am 22 (almost 23) years old.

And I feel 19 again.

I’ve been questioning myself incessantly for the past six weeks of my life. What am I doing? Where am I going? Who am I? What am I? Am I even human?

Joking. Kinda sorta.

I’ve been questioning relationships I’ve had in the past, like if they were worth it, or if they were a waste of time, or if I should have tried harder with them. I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost lovers, I’ve lost family. I’ve pushed people away and I’ve pulled people closer. I’ve been pushed away and I’ve been pulled closer. I’ve cried over people who weren’t worth my tears and I’ve felt nothing for people I should have felt more for. Life, innit. Fucking life.

I’ve ignored texts, I’ve been ignored. I’ve swiped right, I’ve swiped left. I’ve been on successful dates and haven’t been called (or Facebook messaged, whatsapped or plain old texted) back, and I haven’t followed up either. So maybe not so successful. But successful at the time. I’ve stalked potential baes, stalked their exes, stalked their exes boyfriends sister, and subsequently questioned my whole existence and why the fuck I get sucked so far into the social media world.

I’ve gotten lost in a city that I now call semi-home. Semi-home because I currently pay rent there but pretty much live back at home. I’ve driven hours on end to be back at home. Sat for countless hours numbing my bum and my brain on the train to and from Queanbeyan/Sydney central. I’ve walked the streets of Newtown at dusk, breathing in the semi-polluted air, unable to grasp that it is actually my life. Sat in many Max Brenner. Drank many a hot chocolate.

I remember life pre-you and post-you. 

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