A house is not a home

I used to think that the house is the rejuvenating beacon everyone returns to after a long day out of it.

But things change. And so do the relevant discourses surrounding it.

Don't get me wrong, I love my house, and it is still the same shelter I want to return to as since that many years ago.

But recently, my house and the rest of the world outside have seemingly swap places and I no longer know where the apparent beacon of rejuvenation is anymore in my life.

It could be the amount of times I have been spending outside with my friends, and the accompanying freedom which allowed me to perform such doing which made the world outside such a comforting, stress-free place to be - a task the house normally does such a good job at.

But the past few days and maybe even weeks have seen the house transform into what many usually perceive as the world outside - hectic, chaotic and overbearingly stressful.

I come back home to the sight of various websites displaying various properties for rent in Melbourne, a rude reminder of a thing so fundamental and basic I have yet to settle. And then my mind immediately shifts to the day-by-day nearing departure date which, does not make anything feel better at all.

It is precisely at that point when I bang my head and think to myself, "what departure date? you don't even have a freaking air ticket yet."

I know it is an unhealthy norm for some people who are at fault to find blame in anything they see but I certainly have a case.

Slow-replying administrative staff, replies which do not even reply, hassling and taxing documents. The things I've done, I could have filled in application forms for 5 students at minimum.

If I have a choice, I would raise my hands in a second and say I had enough - but I don't have the luxury of choice.

So the familiar cloud looms, and I remind myself I just have to keep going. And work around it. Always work around it.

What about the things that follow AFTER? They definitely aren't exactly the simplest of things to do and the thought of all of that plus the ticking clock is squeezing my nerves and emotions into a tight bundle.

A tight, suffocating, fking hell of a bundle.

And if that is not enough, I have to help at work, my dad tells me. He didn't really say it explicitly, of course. He gave me a choice. And forced me to answer. The all-too-familiar die-die situation. I picked the obvious route. I mean, what choice did I have? The risk of facing the wrath of the feel-bad treatment versus an additional burden to my breaking back.

I sure hope my spine recovers in time before I depart to Melb. That is, IF I even depart at all.

Fk it all.

1 more month approximately before I leave..

All I want is my home back.



-alexeO-