Leaving a place comes with a great tidal wave. It’s like standing on shore, getting hit by multiple angry waves, submerging underneath unwillingly, your lungs filled with polluted water and blood, your eyes gushing with pebbles and small sea shells. Nostalgia is a constant phase for people who always leave a place, who always long to return, and move on, and return. Nostalgia is a tidal wave of memories, sour, sweet, salty.
Above ground, standing still on shore, looking towards the waves is the initial feeling of longing. It is looking forward and not being able to capture the waves and the sky and the water. It is an inability so grand that is better to leave unmentioned.
In my head there is a tidal wave, strong, destructive, frightening, loud and angry. I am constantly submerged under water, my feet stuck in wet sand, my head exploding with particles of fear, uncertainty, doubt, and vulnerability. I cannot run away. I cannot yell for help. I cannot breathe because my lungs are wrapped in a coat of sea creatures. I cannot swim for I am tied down with nostalgia, with longing and the fear of letting go.
This is my state of being. It happens often, for I am often changing homes. And when I am home, wherever that is, I am longing for the tidal wave because I like the excitement and the change of waves. It is a longing, a sick, enticing longing that cannot be explained.
Today the waves are weak. I am above water, breathing spring air without difficulty. I made coffee and washed a pile of dirty dishes that were stained with pasta sauce and ketchup. I did not listen to the voices in my head. I did not long for anything. I walked away from the tidal waves, far out, until I could no longer hear the ocean.