The 1 Week Mark

 I haven't journaled in a month. It scares me. I used to journal all the time. Now whenever I look at my journal and the stationery I have for it I wonder how what to write about, and find that there is nothing in me I can dig up to write about. I feel myself slowly slipping away, shedding off this colourful skin I'd grown over the course of the last year and a half in my festivity. I long for those days. I long for me to come home. 

This Saturday will mark my 1 week of living in my uni halls of residence. It's a shared toilet and pantry flat. I can't tell what makes me hate this all even more - the shared toilet and kitchen that occasionally has their own drama, or the fact that I find myself a little lost without a hand to hold, that I feel like I've been left in the forest to fend for my own, only given a bloody night lamp to trot about with, no weapons. I look at my lecture slides and feel an immense desire to sleep away the next 3 years. 

Ungratefully, I wonder if this is where I should be at all. I recall my journal entry upon entering Taylor's, and being so sure then that it had been the right choice to be in Taylor's, and that that really was my home - and it turned out to be true. A year and a half flew by and I spent it being my favourite version of me. 

Now here I am in a foreign land, questioning my every being and wanting to scream at someone. I don't know. I just don't. I wish future me were here to grab me by the shoulders and tell me what needs to be done, whether I should go back or stick out the storm a little longer because the relief is soon coming. But the facts are clear; I haven't journaled in a month, haven't felt like I've had anything positive to write about in a month, other than the fact that I'm trying out my dream of living abroad, but even then I can't seem to cheer over it as much. 

Childishly put - I just want a friend. Someone to depend on, someone to feel depended on.