It’s been a month since my mom left me, alone, in a city whose language I do not speak and people I do not relate with. A month and I’ve met so many people, I’ve made friends, I’ve thought extensively about being alone and adulthood. I’ve managed to somehow be very quick with some people, trust them too quick. It’s not that I regret that decision yet, only time will tell, but im happy now. I’m happier now than I have been in a long time. It’s almost as if the thunder that once shook my spine has now subdued into soft whispers of the sea, barely audible, late at night. The music hasn’t stopped, but it’s a different genre now. The instruments are calmer now, a little more exciting also, but not at the cost of my sanity.

I think about the constant dilemma of being 17, away from the only reality you have known for your entire life. But in a month, the definition of home changes. Living alone and yet you feel surrounded by comfort. When there’s no crying at 3 am, when there’s sleep at 10, when there’s a schedule which is dull sometimes but also consistent and when there’s no screams of alcohol and drugs and addictions, I suppose, even grey seems better than black. And I often wonder if the sudden wash of calm I have let upon my being is a result of a cyclone’s aftereffects? Is this how it feels after a war tears apart a country? Is this how it feels to have an entire island change latitudes after a tsunami? I suppose it’s calmer than during the war, the remnants of what once used to be.

And in the process of enjoying my new found calm, there are bouts of anger and sadness and nostalgia for things that never happened. I feel angry at people for not letting me have a childhood, experiencing universal moments.

The disparity in expression and experience makes me sad and weirdly nostalgic too. Nostalgia for the heavy ‘what could have been’. The question that haunts the collective experience of human race, only because critical thinking was blessed upon us. Growing up and living alone in the capacity I am right now, is giving me perspective too. I am a firm believer that because we live in a world with 3 dimensions, our opinions on issues and topics should be, at the very least 2 dimensional. Thinking about people and cultures and words and art and history not only as an individual who was affected (or sometimes not) is evidence of narrow thinking. Said realisation has made me question the moral compass I once held and how I thought of the actions done by people around me. Everyone wishes they did things differently but most people end up choosing the option that suits them the best in the present. Hindsight is not a strong suit of humans apparently. 

A month I’ve been in a city, she’s pretty and she’s bold and she demands attention. She’s not the kindest of the lot, she’s not the most helpful at times, but she’s there, she’s strong and she lives and breathes determination. She has stood through storms and cyclones and she knows that there will be calm, before and after the destruction and tears, and she’s ready to pull herself back up. She’s not going anywhere. I’ve not met my family in a month and I’m happier than ever. It is calm, it is serene, but the city I live in, is teaching me to not expect it to last forever and be prepared for when the cyclone comes. Tsunamis never last forever, but neither does sadness and neither does tranquility. 

It’s nice to have that reminder often.