Losing yourself (instead of finding yourself)


‘Are you sure?’

He nods and I crinkle my nose. I have to hold myself back to not ask him again: are you really really sure? Like, really sure?

I can see he’s nervous. He keeps checking if he has his passport (I counted, he checked it five times now) and his ticket. ‘Just in case I need it.’

‘So what are you going to do if you don’t like it there?’ I hear myself ask. The rest of the train car is almost completely empty, it’s 6:33 AM on a Sunday after all. He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Then I’ll just come back. But I don’t think that’ll happen.’

I nod, absentmindedly. I can see the planes flying over way before we get to the airport. They look strangely out of place in the green landscape. The upcoming sun is hiding behind a thick layer of clouds.

‘I just have to go,’ he says when we’re getting off the train. ‘I can’t stay here. I don’t belong here.’ And I know that. I understand that. We’ve been friends for years and this is how his mind works, always on the go. I remember he once said, years ago, that his mind goes crazy when he stays in the same place for too long.

‘I lost myself here.’ He prints his boarding pass. We hug goodbye.

I smile. ‘That means now it’s time to go find yourself.’

Photo taken by Thom Vo (via Unsplash.com)


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