Going Home

Sunday, March 25, 2012

So, I was on Spring Break last week, which is why I didn't post. It was fabulous, and I'll probably be posting some pictures and blogging about that next week. For tonight, I have something else weighing on my mind.

A year seems like a long time, right? So many things can happen in a year. It's a whole quarter of my college education and a 20th of my entire life. It's an almost infinite amount of time.

Ha. HA. HA.

Turns out a year is tiny, microscopic, almost nothing in the scheme of an entire life. The merest speck in the course of time as a whole. And for the first time in my life, a year is far too little time.

My homestay family had one of their previous homestay students over for dinner a few times this week. We spent much the time talking about the old homestay students and this girl's time in Italy. Tonight she came over again and had dinner. She's leaving tomorrow.

I don't know what it was exactly. Perhaps because this has been suffocated in the back of my mind for so long. I locked it away when I first felt it. I told myself not to think about it. I trained myself to see only the moment in which I am living. Not to look to the future, because for the first time in my life I'm more interested in the present. I want to be here. Here, in this place. Here. Forever. It was only a matter of time before it really hit me. Not even two months. Two months out of eight. How did I get here? Where did those six months go? And what happens now? What happens in two months? Less than two months.

I never really understood it. I never really got that. That my experience was finite, is finite, will be finite. Not until I saw someone else who had been in my place and now has passed it. Someone to whom a life in Florence is merely a fond memory. Someone whose relationships endure, yes, but someone who has closed that chapter of her life. For good. No turning back.

Italy has been a dream, a wish, a goal for so long. I can't imagine a life in which I'm not looking ever forward to it. For the last ten years of my life, through my many changes of ambition and interest, Italy has been constant. I always meant myself to be here, but I never thought of after. Now I think of after everyday, and I worry. Everyday. That I won't find my way. That nothing will live up to this. That my soul is a fickle traitor, and I'll spend my life flitting from one interest to the next.

But I'm writing again.

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