Homemade soup 

October 11, 2017

I stared at the calendar this morning. October, in clear dark letters stared back at me. It really shouldn’t have been such a shock, the months are in the same order every year after all.

The leaves have started to turn in Paris, the rain is relentless in the most romantic way, and I’ve pulled out the merino in order to stay cozy when I do manage go leave my bed. And yet, when I read the word October a sadness started to form in the pit of my stomach; I don’t want this year to end. It has been one of the most painful, heart wrenching and terrifying years of my life, and I’ve never been happier.

I am scared of what this season will bring, in just a few months I’ll be spending my first Chrismas alone. Half way across the world from everyone I know and love. Hopefully, in some strange land eating dinner with other Christmas Eve orphans. The prospect is bitter sweet to me. I want to experience life alone, but as the nights get longer, and the weather gets colder, melencholia sets in. I long for the safety of my home, the warmth of the fire and the smell of my Dad’s winter soup. 

I’m also so aware of the passing of time. It’s hard to hold on to every new sound, sight and smell when my life is travelling at the speed of sound. It’s sad that time really does disappear when we are at our happiest. I’m terrified too, of returning to reality and finding a life that bores me. Not that my life will be boring exactly, simply that over here my life seems limitless. I can get on a plane and go wherever I want, whenever I want. I’m constantly exploring new and exciting things. How do you go back to routine and safety after such freedom? And yet how do you stay grounded without a bowl of homemade soup? 

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