Again
10/16/2024
As I drag my extremely heavy suitcase to the fifth floor, a lovely woman stops me and greets me in a language I still don't understand. I stop, to catch my breath, I nod to her in response and on the way I look at two more floors that I will somehow have to overcome by myself. Always by myself. And as I struggle to the top, the only thought that has accompanied me since the beginning of packing my suitcase is spinning in my mind like a broken record. ,,And again”.
I don't remember my endings. Apparently, I never let them come, I always ran away from the ends. I only remember all the beginnings, as I know, I will remember this one too.
It always started when I was alone. At the Bali airport, standing at the door all night, not understanding a single word that the locals shout and not understanding myself at all. In the old town of Barcelona, where instead of a room I had rented someone's wardrobe to live. On the island of Gran Canaria, where I thought would be my last stop, but from it I run away so far that I went around the globe several more times before I calmed down.
I can't find an answer to why I'm always moving to places where I don't know a single person. Sometimes, and lately - often, I am disturbed by the enjoyment of solitude. I like to just be. Drinking wine in a cafe in the old town, watching tourists share their photos of the day, and I didn't even have to take out my phone that day. I never notice, feel, realize so much until I'm alone. Sometimes I think that this is both a painful scourge and the greatest gift that ends very quickly.
There's nothing better than walking along the beach at sunset, with no unnecessary words. Writing, reading and not talking to anyone for days on end - without asking where you are from, not much else adds to the conversation. I like that the locals play jazz here in the evenings, and nobody ever asked me what I came there with.
They don't talk much there - they smile sadly instead. The Portuguese are apparently famous for their melancholy smile.
I had to move to Porto three years ago. Two ago. I had to move last year, but I was only able to this year. I never felt that there was a land waiting for me. Never until now. And I am extremely scared, and at the same time extremely happy, to give myself another chance. Another new beginning that doesn't know where it will lead, but I will follow. To be honest, living in Bali, Barcelona, and even Gran Canaria - all those beginnings were the most amazing events of my life, which would not have happened if I had been scared and not flown. Self-love, turns out, comes not from success, but from failures that you managed to survive. And looking at the series of my life - I have accumulated love for myself for a few more lives ahead. Fear and love.
I'm afraid even now. But I'm getting used to this fear. I look at this new beginning like a wrapped present under the tree. I don't know what's inside it, but it's addressed to me. It's going to take time to unwrap it, but oh dear, how I can't wait to see what's waiting for me inside.
Until then, I raise this slice of pizza to us. Those who do not understand how, but will conquer the world in their own way.
Kissing from the ocean shore.