I often think of my happy places.
John Lennon Wall, Prague. With a boy playing Beatles songs on his guitar, surrounded by writings and drawings of all colours and shapes.
A little fishermen village in Morocco. The sound of the waves at night, gently drifting me to sleep. The cold wind on my skin while I do yoga on a terrace, moments after the sun has gone down for the day.
Holland Park, London. When everything was still incredibly perfect and the idea of being alone didn't even cross my mind.
A balcony in Frankfurt, only an hour before getting on a bus to Berlin. In my panties, talking to a guy who has no idea how much he's done to me.
I could tink of many, many more.
But one question keeps popping into my head: why not home? Why not the house I've grown up in? Too many memories, maybe. Too many unsaid thoughts, unshared opinions, buried-down feelings, too many unasked questions, too many unanswered ones.
Scared of being happy, of someone throwing that happiness in your face when you least expect it.
Scared of ever relaxing, because where I live relaxing is for lazy asses.
Where I grew up, if you hear someone crying, you just close the door and let them cry. If, for any reason, you saw someone crying, you would have to ask them what's wrong and that just does not happen where I grew up.
Where I grew up, hugs are given out very sparsely. They're kept for special occasions. Problem is, no one is willing to take the responsibility of deciding when an occasion is special enough.
Where I grew up, you're supposed to tell everybody everything but you can't expect them to to the same with you.
Things change, places not so much.