I can’t remember much now of the energy I had before I left for England or what it was I was hoping to find when I traveled all the way here with my maroon luggage bag which equaled me in weight and height. When I think back about how I was, desperate to find some vestige of meaning in an age where it feels elusive, I still feel disbelief at how I managed to forge through in spite of the doubts and challenges.
Some days move by slowly, some weeks fly by much too quickly. In the blink of an eye, I am already halfway done with my program. These recent months have been much more welcoming than the earlier ones and I have been grateful for the longer days, the warmer company amongst friends I’ve made, the skills I’ve developed as a person.
It has been humbling to realise how much I lack in writing, to read other stories and marvel at other voices trying to develop as much as my own. I used to write for myself; because it was cathartic, because it felt good and it was the only way I knew how to things fluidly. Writing feels a lot more weighted these days and sometimes this feels uncomfortable. There is a distance between the reader and the pages at hand I still try to bridge. I may not always be successful, but I’m aware of the responsibility that lies in wanting to convey important messages and the promise of growth keeps me going. Writing is the attempt to approximate what others feel. Isn’t that still a wonderful task to endeavour upon?
And perhaps any worthwhile fight is meant to be uncomfortable at some point.