My life in London

 

 

 

 

The truth of writing scares me the most. It is like looking in the mirror, the image of imperfection and the knowledge I lack. When I write my thoughts down, I face myself. I face the frustrations that I hide so very well. I try to keep everyone at a distance. I rather walk this planet knowing I am a different person to everyone else than actually allowing myself to belong somewhere. I blame others for this raging anger inside of me. I put all my time and energy in prooving what's wrong instead of showing what is right. Part of me is still in puberty and can't let go of its past. If I dress this way or look that way people will automatically accept me. When I know that people accept me for who I am. The sad reality is that there are very few of these people walking the planet. My dreams, hopes, ambitions, morals and views differ to those around me and as much as people don't understand me I don't understand them all the same. For as long as I can remember I wished myself out of this place. And now when I'm closing down on leaving, I'm scared. Because as much as I go on about being the social outcast of a typical ignorant town it is home and the outcast character I play has become a place of comfort, a place where I belong. Somehow in this disturbed place I found my save haven. When I go on that plane, there will be no turning back. The reality is that this town hasn't changed, I've changed but the people haven't changed me, my experiences have. But what keeps me awake at night is the following; Will I find what it is that I'm looking for? Will I find myself in this big pile of people? It's a new era, a new year, a whole new chapter and I can only say that I'm going to give it everything within me to become what I want to be. The gloves are off, no more hiding but just being.