Last Saturday

something inexplicable happened.  Now that I’m in the middle of a flat-hunt (one of the most stressful things ever, truly),  that the days are getting ever darker and work more and more difficult, I’ve let go of the stress and the doubts, as well as all the rules I set up to maintain a semblance of balance and could not keep at all. And I feel light, lighter than ever since the first few weeks after having arrived – before that, I don’t even remember, probably in Genoa, to which I still compare: where’s the difference between what becomes home and what does not? -, and balanced, and confident, and happy.
Not euphoric,
not uncomplicated.
For I read news from home and from elsewhere and worry. For I slowly but steadily drift away from my former life, and at time find myself in a bubble I honestly detest.
For it’s been only a couple of days, and it all might only be for these sunny days, knowing how fine-tuned I am to the weather (which is a truly unfortunate thing, really, but more so in Belgium).
But I still fel good, feel at home in myself, if not in the city,
as I slowly grow into myself, into what I could be.
It’s been half a year today.
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