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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Mourning Madrid.


How do you leave a city as beautiful as Madrid and not mourn the loss of something inside yourself?

Being in Madrid brought me back to life, showed me that I am capable of feeling happy through abandoning this mediocre existence and everything that I know. I have been back home for less than 24 hours and am already looking at flights to Italy due to the unbearable weight of being in the UK

I watched the luminous clouds change to grey and I immediately knew that we were descending over home; I felt the shift inside me. 

There is a part of us that believes that we are not worthy of great things, a part that sabotages experiences through the preconception of them being short-lived, and if anything, this trip taught me how to drown out these compulsions and not mourn the loss of moments before they had even had the chance to present themselves. My mind is my worst predator but something about leaving the UK silenced its narrative and I cannot explain just how liberating it was to finally be able to navigate this space and not stand in my own way.

I was thinking about the brevity of our breaths juxtaposed with their magical purpose of sustaining our existence; if something so frail yet extraordinary can keep us alive, our tangible selves are entitled to and can be attributed to so much more and we owe it to ourselves to recognise the sacred nature of our own beings. I wasn't ready to go because I felt like I still had more to give to the world and Madrid made me feel excited to be alive, to discover. I cannot recall the last time, if ever, that I felt this grateful to be alive, and yet something about being back in the country seemingly stripped me of all of that again.

I feel like the shattered remnants of an unfinished sculpture.

I know that we, as a nation, are renowned for complaining about the weather and our general residence here, but my dissociation with this landscape rests amid a whole new realm of antipathy. I felt more at home in a foreign land where I was unable to communicate with anyone than I ever have done here, and this coupled with the detachment from my Pakistani heritage, has left me feeling distant from everything that I know. The concept of 'home' is interesting, it is where one feels the most at ease, and contrary to popular belief, sometimes you have to find and make your own home because it isn't necessarily always amid the places in which you live or have lived. It's evident through the sudden deterioration of my mood that
England really isn't and has never felt like home. I've spent my entire life questioning why I feel out of place, unable to connect, and I've always believed that this somehow stems from an issue that exists within the fibre of my being instead of its backdrop. I understand now that I don't belong here, I've tried and tried, but the disappointment upon waking up this morning was too unbearable and the weight of that sentiment made me realise just how detrimental it is to remain here. I don't know whether this means that I must travel until I find home, but anything is better than the overwhelming sadness that I've been re-bestowed with.

Maybe it really isn't depression that is the problem, maybe it's just this space.

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