20 hours of cabin air, 5 hours of broken sleep, about 7 romantic comedies later,
I am home.
On the other side of the world. Where I legally cannot work or live.
But it’s home to me.
Self love is a complex, yet simple thing. Sometimes it’s just a day that I say fuck it and wear something that I know hugs me in “all the wrong places”.
What are the wrong places anyway? Maybe clothes should be made for all of our places rather than us having to change our places to suit the clothes.
Self love can also be retail therapy or spending a day at home and refusing to wear any pants.
Busy, dirty streets and crisp polluted air. Capturing moments on a broken film camera, not knowing what half the dials mean. Eating. Sleeping in till 3pm. Eating some more. Running on no one’s time but my own.
Wandering the streets for hours alone with noise cancelling headphones listening to Glitterbug by The Wombats – as if they wrote it to be the soundtrack to my life – shooting a music video in my head.
Self love is creating a home in wherever I travel, for as little or as long as I’m there. Seeing it through the eyes of the ones that are dying to escape when I couldn’t possibly imagine ever leaving.