Moving to Australia is definitely one of the most bat-shit crazy ideas
I’ve ever had the guts to follow.
10 days in,
I’m still living in a hostel,
picking the combination of clothes out of the suitcase sitting in the corner of this room,
while the girl sleeping on the bottom bed is still in her dress from yesterday’s night
and the 40-year-old man is half drunk from his unplanned pub crawl.
And despite the air chilling my bones,
the $12 for a drink and still getting lost around these streets,
the thought of being on the other side of the world doesn’t feel so scary
if you find your bunch of people to talk to on a balcony,
all things light like how you like your tea or if it’s okay to wear slippers to go out, tv series and learning to find your balance.
So here I find myself,
leaving the thought that flying halfway across the world wasn’t a matter of stubbornness,
but the evolution of me turning into me,
and bad habits
and questionable taste in late night music altogether.
10 days in and I can’t say I feel at home,
but a step closer to how I’ve always liked to things to be.
It’s mad how comfortable you can feel around people you’ve only shared
a handful of days with.