Rester, partir.

I cannot stand the thought of being the one who stays. It makes me physically sick to my stomach, staring at my new passport in its brand new peach-coloured Ted Baker passport holder that says “Fly me to the moon” in script across the front. Hell, if all I needed to get to the moon was a passport, I’d be there as soon as I could get a flight.

But I am so tired of people leaving when I want to be the one who leaves.

My Instagram right now is so full of throwbacks to when I was living my most perfect life. I don’t post things that happen now. I spend all my time thinking about where I’d rather be and I know that’s so counterproductive and not healthy but I can’t help it. And these final months are going to be the worst because it’s so close and yet so far. And there’s still that final hurdle to get over which is the biggest, most stressful one.

I feel like all I’ve done is wait to leave. All I will do until I go is wait to leave. And I cannot wait until I am the one that people are making time to say goodbye to me before I jet off to my next spot.

It’s so frustrating when I see people with these opportunities to go places and they don’t appreciate it. They live for the Instagram posts they could get likes on or they hem and haw and drag their feet through their departure. If someone offered me a one-way ticket to Europe, departing tomorrow at 9.00am? Goodbye. I’m packing now and saying my goodbyes via phone and FaceTime.

I am an under-watered plant planted in too shallow of soil. I refuse to take root here. I refuse to grow. And I’m waiting until I am carried on a breeze to where I am supposed to be.

 

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