It hit me as I was on the train this morning. In a week, from that moment, I'll be on an airplane, going back home. Everything that I've known and been forced to get used to will be gone. The money will change, my friends will seperate and go their own ways and in the end, all we'll have is just the memories.
It's a bit sobering, at just how fast everything has gone past. I remember coming in very clearly. My own nervousness and self doubt even a day or so in, hoping to hell that I had made the right choice, coming out here.
So far, I have few regrets about making the trip. Now, I'm torn over returning. Now that I've lived here for four months, I'm reluctant to leave the confines of my squeaky flat, my own cooking, the city and the people around me that I've come to know and enjoy being around. In a week, that'll all be gone, and I'll be back home with familiar people and surroundings.
On the other hand, I'm eager to leave. To see my friends and family back home, to share my experiences, pictures and stories that I've slowly accumulated over the past 104 days that I've been here. To see my two dogs, my sister, my room and my own computer, and to be away from my roommate and for the near future, work in general.
Most of all, I'm aprehensive about what's coming up, I think. Living here has been a dream. I'm surrounded by things that are fantastic and different, and that'll be gone soon, and in the next year, I'll be coming up to my last year of school, and spat into the real world, something that I'm nervous about and not sure if I'm ready.
I don't have a plan, an idea or a clue about what to do next.