This is not an apology letter

For the past few months, I’ve tried to ghost away from my past routines

– quick additions of bad habits and the circularity of things I let happen. I broke patterns and slipped out of the uncomfortable suit I’ve been wearing for far too long

to please anyone else but me.

 

And I’ve travelled to colder countries to get the chill in my bones and feel myself again,

I’ve cut and run from all distractions, superficial anecdotes and unnecessary frills. I’ve turned down my daily low-income internship and with it the sense of purpose I’d swallow every morning with my coffee. I decided to take a leap and commit full-time to an ever-changing plan that jams in my head and changes shape according to the weather, the horoscope or the vibes of the day.

I’ve indulged in all things I craved at that right moment – little does it matter if we’re talking making out with someone for the sake of it, buying a new pair of sweatpants to make the lazy days look nicer or cutting the hair I’d been growing for years. I moved back home and then headed to the Netherlands to take one last breath of dizzy air, sip juice on the canals and have a bite of familiarity before making my next big move.

 

Because it’s important to be done with a chapter before starting a new one. I’ve tried shortcuts and improvised ways to get away with this ugly truth, but the only way out the messed up stuff heavy on your chest is to get rid of its tangles you’ve been ignoring, brushing them away from the roots  before they get too heavy.

 

Only then you can start over, lighter.

 

And what I came to realise is that these aching bones, lazy ass and thirsty eyes of mine are the only things I can always hold tight to when all things feel like they’re slipping from my fingers. At the end of the day, the only person I’m sharing the bed with is myself. And I might not have the tightest body or the wittiest mouth, but since we’re here I might as well make a hell good hookup out of it.

 

I’m sorry for everyone who found me at this weird moment where everything is still possible and I don’t seem to know how to take one step at the time. Sorry for whoever goes to dinner with me and has to wait for me to spend 25 mins reading the menu and then ordering the same pizza I’ve had since I was 10, for those who put up with me at the supermarket where I was supposed to buy a smoothie and got out with a bottle of wine and for those who are still trying to paraphrase my late night texts. And I’m even more sorry for those who haven’t found me yet and are about to get all tangled up in my perpetual indecision and attempts at adulting.

But the ones I’m most sorry for are the ones who’d rather sit on their asses and say sorry when they’re right and ask for permission before taking a coffee break, stuck in a life they didn’t dream about.

 

This is not an apology letter to my parents who see me leave every other month, for my friends whose birthdays I forget or acquaintances I haven’t seen in years. This is not a post-it to remind me to run more, drink less and stop falling for all the wrong guys. This is just some stupid late night mind doodle to remind myself of how far I’ve come and how long the way is. It’s going to be a hella ride but I’m sure it’ll be a fun one.

 

So here I find myself

yet another late night playing rock, paper, scissors to decide where to head next.

There’s some sort of pleasure in trusting the discomfort of not having a clue about what’s coming up next and just going at it.

Full speed.

 

 

If you can’t always do what you fancy,

why not at least pick a nice place to do it from ?

 

 

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