Back to Black

What do you do, when there's nothing left for you; When you realise that all you're grasping at are phantoms of a prime long gone. Auburn photographs ignited by the ghosts of recollection, fuelled by reminiscence, but ultimately reduced to nothing but dust.

Everyone's going home.

I want to go home.

I miss home, I truly do.

But I can't.

I can't allow the idea that when my two years here are finally up, the time I spent in this foreign land will be nothing more than a mere dream, to form and solidify into the bane of my existence.

People have asked me, why don't I go home?

I tell them I am busy with my work; That plane tickets are expensive, that time is not on my side.

Truth is, there is nothing left for me in my home country.

What will face me is the bleakness of my future, the warm lingering of a past that has hurried me by.

I don't want to taint the memories of my childhood and adolescence with my skewed, harsh, disdainful grown-up lenses.

While I'll be welcomed home by my loving and wonderful family, long-lost friends and a plethora of hearty meals, they'll eventually have their life to live, their own future to carve.

And I have mine too.

While staring into the bleak face of uncertainty, it isn't easy to relinquish the possibility of a better life elsewhere.

Better make good use of what we have now.

Better fight hard for what we want now.

Because soon, and I mean very very soon, I may be leaving on a plane.

Back to where I came from.

Back to harsh reality;

Away from the dream.

Back to black.