Did you get to read my post, “There’s a place for healing,” which I wrote shortly after moving out of the city? Just to summarize, that move was because I needed some help dealing with depression.

Three years later, here I am spending a month in my hometown, facing the horrors that pulled the trigger – pollution, congestion, traffic, and majority of the population that just don’t give a damn.

To my surprise, I felt at home. In place of awkward moments that I anticipated from people I had never seen since, are warm hugs of welcome. People still walk crazy fast, and I was walking at their pace because “I don’t want to be in the way” of somebody who’s catching up with whatever, yet I kept a certain calm within. To be honest, I see people in a more caring light. Maybe it was just my disturbed soul then that zoomed in on the ugliness of the environment. And now that I am calm…

I would have wanted this ending: Now that I am calm, I am no longer limited to only one home, I am home wherever I am. Home is not a place, but a state of being.

But in my remaining days, I’ve been having dreams of my boyfriend, my parents, my dog Lucas running by the fish pond. I cannot live without the ocean breeze, the huge starry sky while I drink milk; nor can I live without the dozen different sounds of birds that my dad feeds every afternoon, birds that sometimes share in our kitchen; nor my mom’s orchids and guava trees. I cannot be away from the waterfalls and the mountaintops.

I am still a big-city misfit.
That’s undeniably my nature.
And that’s fine to embrace.

 

From the other side of “healing,” here’s a friend’s piece: Prinzel, my friend

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