It’s hard to live in a part of the world that is so isolated from everything else. Where things are cooling down but everywhere else they are heating up. To huddle in a blanket and look at the photos of people you love in places you love basking in sunshine and each other’s company. Knowing that part of the departure was for the rebuilding, and knowing it was always going to be work, damnit, but starting to wonder how much stamina you have left in you to keeping leaving all the time.
Yes, the new people have all the makings of the next great, lifelong friendship, but feeling the vastness of the distance you’ve placed between yourself and the lifelong friendships created in years past still stings. Especially with the seasons changing, the cold air creeping into the corners of the poorly-insulated cinderblock, the silence of a beach town Sunday night in the off-season, the newness faded and monotonous, oppressive familiarity loosening questions already asked on other dark, lonely nights when the sky felt like it was falling.
It’s nights like this that create the restlessness, the need to stay in motion to avoid falling over the edge of homesickness and into a pool of despair. The end of a sad novel, a particularly chilly night, a group of friends enjoying their sun-soaked weekend in a city that still has pieces of your heart buried all over it, the shrapnel of your expatriated life scattered across the floor and haphazardly shoved into boxes in preparation for the next movement, the next departure, the next step in the ever-forward march.
I passed a sign in a shop on a blurry Wednesday night that read, “Living isn’t for everyone.” I can understand why simply existing is a much easier choice.