53 days. That’s what it took me to gather myself and write this post. With an aching head and a knotted stomach, I left home 53 days ago, only to find one here.
People who have known me have gauged that even though it is difficult to get words out of me at first, I make for extremely interesting conversations and people who can engage me in one, leave me with a lasting memory. However, thrown into a foreign territory, I stood on the sidelines as a stranger. It was like drowning in a sea of unuttered words and restrained emotions.
It was ironic, because words and emotions had given me the sense of pride I held for myself. I had stopped writing and sharing even a mildly piquant debate with others around me, not because I didn’t know what to write or talk about, but because I couldn’t find the right words for them. The pen was an extension of me. I may ramble from crevice to crevice in search of solitude, but somehow I found solace in the world of ruled lines and black ink. The words I wore on my chest as an armour of lessons were slowly wearing thin.
Even though the road ahead held terrain that wasn’t comfortable, I found people looking past the dainty book description, cracking the shell, only to find another layer. Cautious, yet unperturbed. I began waking up each day, progressively foreign to homesickness. Even though I still am too awkward and shoddy to fit in here, I think I am going to one day. This is just the beginning. And I can’t wait for the rest of it.