To say the impending Sunday depresses me, would make a mockery of my heritage and inherent need for melodrama. I feels as the headless queen might have felt, knowing the inevitable fate that was to await her, the inescapable silhouette of the ruthless blade looming ahead.
When did I go from being an un-tethered kite, buffeted by cross winds threatening to plummet unceremoniously before skilful hands tweak and twirl, guiding you into a surging upwind, tautening and loosening their hold to let you soar. Can I separate the people I love from the city I love? Can I come back and be happy? Can I be happy if I don’t?
Trepidation, surrealism, incredulity mingling into a disturbing uncertainty about coming back, inexplicably distilling into the unreasonable panic of having to leave too soon. Before I’m ready. Like always. This is where my heart is… isn’t it?
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