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For as long as I could remember, I was fascinated with the idea of escapism. Not carrying any baggage, just getting on the plane and not knowing where it’ll land. I’d look up at the sky, at the airplanes, and wonder what it’s like to escape.

I look at the same sky, different airplane, and an entirely new place, and it screams,” home”.   But I never get on it.

I walk where the streets lead me, never really knowing where I am or where I need to be. I smile at faces I’ve never seen before; some don’t smile back.

A row of coffee shops; I catch a glimpse of myself as I peer inside. I smile, but the reflection never does. I look away; keep walking.

It gets dark, and I see another airplane. It’s not a shooting star, and I might never see one, but I wish to feel as if I belong, and not be torn between homesickness and the need to escape.

“Will this new city, the new faces staring back at me but never quite noticing me, ever feel familiar? Will it ever feel like home?” I ask myself every day, until it does.

And that’s when I knew, it’s time to get on the plane.

 

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