It feels as though an eternity has passed since I landed. It feels like thousands of miles separate me from the person who first crawled into her bleach-white apartment and cried until the sun rose. The time has been endless, it seems, a time and a half of constant movement within the confines of a city I don't understand. Rattling through a dense language barrier. Fueling myself with strange delicacies. Weeping alone and aching as the world revolves and the people talk and the city moves and no one is the wiser that I even feel.
And now, 33 hours remain. I will ascend the steps to go home. I will drug myself so the anxiety isn't too terrible and play through the video games I borrowed for the sheer shake of diddling away time. 33 hours until I bid my good-byes to the maniac drivers, the ancient acropoli, the blood-colored sunsets, the stray dogs, the pushy vendors, the too-bright lights, the too-small rooms and pack up my newest souvenirs in my carry on for the long flight home.
Though I bring back more than the material. I slide into my suitcase things far greater than the gifts I bought for my family. I am returning with new perspective on myself as an individual. Though the time was not ideal, though I may not even classify it as good, I still learned an incredible amount. I added to my endless library of religious literature and expanded my knowledge of my intended major. I have new understanding of my ideas of death, life, friendship, love, family and my place within the community I have built back in Washington. My final paper for the course will revolve around these revelations so I will save them for that particular assignment and leave my readership in the dark. Be assured, I have found a few new pieces to add to the collage I deem "Self."
The 33 hour dark.
The final sprint before the crashing of the wave. The light as it sparkles and shines and takes me.
I am ready to go home.
I am counting the hours.
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