Mar 19, 2016

This month last year, I slept on D's bed and spent nights dazed and drunk. Daylight meant going to the mall to check up on my second photography exhibit and attending interviews for a possible, stable job. When D's graduation came, I had to move out of her apartment and deal with my loneliness alone.

It was nice to have L live with me in our family home. And in there, we did the same thing — sulk, wallow, and weep over shit we dealt with emotionally.

Eventually, things got better — I got a job, stable financial status, ticket to Europe, a group exhibit, artist friends, art connections, and many, many more. I fell more in love with life and the sulking, wallowing, and weeping all faded — slowly, surely.

Six months ago, I moved in to a room across my best friend's. I made a home out of it — spending my money on book shelves, comfortable mattresses, electric fan, led lights, inviting friends for wine, movies, sleep overs — no matter how small the room was, I made sure that it was big enough for me and my dreams.

Six months later, I sent my resignation letter, packed everything into small boxes and big bags, and booked a one way ticket out of this city.

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