Lately Saturday nights have been going rather slow. Instead of spending time with the best people on Earth, I do statistics in class and then end up collapsing in bed when I get home. Saturday night, and I’m nauseous because I might have had bad food. Also, I’m miserable.
I knew that I would have to get on with life after Zambia, that it wasn’t permanent. It was supposed to be a trip to open my eyes and experience the world, and experience the world I did. I was free and happy, I was content. I knew I was making an impact, however small it may be. Some days were frustrating, and others scary, but none was boring. Life was a little more lively there.
And now I’m back here. I’m back and there are no kids giving me high-fives when I walk down the road. I’m back and there’s no pleasant evening walks to town. I’m back and there’s no gelato place that serves mocha flavoured ice cream. I’m back and there’s nobody to hand me their jacket when I’m cold. I’m back and there’s nobody in my room I can talk to about the day. I’m back and there’s no 3 am toasts. I’m back and there is no liveliness anymore, just the monotony.
It hit me, and it hit me hard.
Because now I feel alone in the crowds, when that small town made me feel welcome. I’ve been chained back to my house and university. I miss the smiles and the people at Mukuni who all echoed my name as I passed by. Here, there is just apathy. Just routine, doing what you’ve gotta do. Up in the morning, catch the train to college, sit in the lectures and come back home to assignments and ghosts of the past.
Maybe I’m being sensitive, maybe I’m the foolish one. I let the five weeks define me as a person, I let myself get too attached. The onus is on me, and I owe it to myself to fix it as well. But I don’t know how. Because everyday, I wake up to find myself missing the muffins for breakfast. And oh, his voice reaching my room while I got ready. I miss those things. Sometimes, I close my eyes and take myself back to the version of the world I fell in love with, knowing it’ll never be the same again.
It’s killing me, slowly.