Upon the return from such hopeful heights, I found myself reflective. I had an inclination to expound on the recent series of posts attributed to the ambivalence of visiting "home." To be fair to my birthplace, it becomes imperative for me to divulge into the difference. When I came home after an extended period of mentorship in Spain, we both met with mixed feelings. Home resembled a hollow shell of its former shelf.

The snow in January would plague upon the anxious feelings I carried. Bitter cold weather, encompassed me. I felt shrouded by the hostile climate, which only served to prey upon my fears.

Could I ever fit in?

Each day placed an enormous weight on my shoulders. With each snow fall, the gravity of it's control gaining more and more control. Drowning under the weight of precipitation. Each step I take, I find myself trudging deeper into the depths of snow. No amount of protection could prevent the body from feeling the harsh winds of winter. The wind burns upon my face. Stinging, sharp, it presses against my cheeks. The blood rushes to my face, but futility is its name.

How could things change?

Meetings do instill the joy they used to. Conversations feel manufactured. I find myself uncaring of the tone in which I communicate. All I can find solace in, is the notion to flee. Escapism. 

Disenfranchisement sets in. Hope fleets. A feeling sets in, one I have not felt in years...

I no longer fit in.