//Apartment 102//

//now it's my time to depart, and i just had a change of heart//

I feel like I don't know who I am sometimes. Like I'm just continuously pretending to be this image and making adjustments accordingly to who I am currently around and what I believe that person would want from me. That in itself if a horrifying realisation. Who am I? Who the fuck am I really? Do I even know, or have I been wearing this mask of somebody else for so long that I am a mystery now to myself?

I have always seeked refuge in the familiarity of my self-destructive lifestyle, telling myself that I wasn't deserving of anything greater than the shit-show my very existence had become. Always living in the same shit town, always making the same shit choices.

I knew the version of me that lived in this town, talked to these friends - rather, glorified acquaintances - and kept making the same aweful choices over and over. That version of myself was most familiar, and it was certainly easy.

But look where 'easy' and 'familiar' have gotten me.

I desperately needed change, my body craved it. This wouldn't be easy. Fuck, nothing worth anything ever was. Call it running away, call it starting over. Either way, it's so very necessary. New place, new life, new me.

So there I sat, in the very unfamiliar mix of rushed strangers in the airport, anxiety coursing through my veins as I waited to board my flight out of the United States.

Manchester, here I come.