Part 1 sounds ominous doesn’t it? Well, I guess it is in a way. Today I sent an email asking to be transferred back home. I don’t know when or even if it’ll happen, but at least I know that I’ve done my part in making it happen. I feel that it’s time that I went back to the island to, as cheesy as it sounds, find myself there. I left 20 years of my life behind when I moved to this country; I need to reconnect to that kid I used to be and find a way to make him see who I am now.
Maybe it won’t happen, maybe it will. All I know is that I need to go back. I ran from that place for so long. I tried all I could to never go back. All the memories I had of that place were dark and painful, but recently I’ve started to remember all the good that happened there too. I remembered the friends who loved me before I loved myself, the ones who let me be perfectly unclear in what I chose to call myself. The witches who made jewelry, the poets who longed for love, the teachers who wanted change, the musicians that wanted more, the couples who wrote love journals, the church kids who were just trying to find their place. I had forgotten all their lights and replaced them with the darkness that I felt inside. But I’m bigger now. I see differently. And I miss their lights more than ever.
I’m still afraid of going back. Have I changed too much to belong there anymore? Have the ones who’ve loved me moved on? Is moving back just starting over again? I guess I won’t know until I return. I guess what I want to say is that I’m trying to go back to my island. Hopefully I’ll get to go soon.
I’ll send you my new address when I get it, even thought I know you can’t write back. What I’d give to hear what you have to say.
Until next time.