Prelude
I hadn’t been on a plane in three years, and for a babe with wanderlust, that’s eternity. I couldn’t even blame it on COVID because movement and travel were fully back to normal. The last time I went abroad was a short, spontaneous solo trip to Morocco lasting around five to six days.
I was going through so much uncertainty and internal change that, rather than hugging the little coin tightly and getting my ducks in a row, I threw it all in a plane ticket and accommodation. I was being called out of a cave. On the outside, it looked impulsive, but on the inside, it was the right time.
When I travel, my life speaks to me and a fog lifts. Travel isn’t the cure for issues or patterns you couldn’t face when you’re home, but it’s a dehumidifier. It sucks the fog out of your heart and mind that was covering your internal gaze. At least for me, the contrast between the life I want and the one I am living gets extremely potent. After I came back from my trip in 2023, I came back changed forever. I offered a piece of myself to the sea in Essaouira and the gorgeous sunset I watched at the terrace of a brunch place in Marrakesh. Everything I was worried about before leaving for the trip was resolved miraculously a month later in February, a week before my 27th birthday. A chapter had ended. So much unravelled in the year and a half that followed. I left my old career, moved away from a city that I lived in for a decade after moving there when I was 18, and moved down south to Somerset, where I’ve lived for almost two years now.
When I moved to this city, free from the London hustle and bustle and big expenses, I exhaled and retreated. I had my own flat for the first time in my life at the age of 28. In London, most people, even those earning well, can only afford to flat share. I know I couldn’t do it anymore, but I loved London too much. But I had to break my own heart. When I came to Bristol, I cherished the silence, peace, and space. I fell into a cave that held me, and although I don’t live in the best area or apartment complex, it gave me what I needed for the time being. I felt limited, but I felt safe. It was the year of the snake, and boy was I shedding. Whenever I did anything new, the seeds I planted would eat themselves up and disappear. It wasn’t time for visible growth. 2026 hits, and I begin to feel restless, but I resisted and clung to old stories because change is scary. I could feel life asking me, as it did in 2023, to get ready. Things were beginning to speed up. It was beginning to ask me to break my own heart, again. A few weeks after turning the big 3-0, I accomplished a huge personal goal.
But this momentum began to scare the old protective scaffolding in my psyche. I think our bodies know when change is on the horizon, but they resist because they are afraid. They are memory keepers for when circumstances of change, in the past, were not so kind to us. When our roots were plucked with no polite heads up or warning. We never got a memo from change. As your intuition grows and you’re more awake to the texture of your life, change sends you an email, a phone call and even a text, if not, all of it. Your job is not only to respond but to mediate between the parts that flood your system with anxiety and panic. The parts that bring out the archives of mistakes and failures as though they weren’t the reason for your successes. The black and white thinking and self-abandonment.
But you’re also holding inside of you the part of you that’s fed up with your dull life.
The fear of change at some point no longer feels seductive enough to resist. So the two parts clash, and an internal power struggle ensues. For two months, I projected this internal power struggle onto my therapist, as she patiently helped me through it all. The projection began to lift, finally, a week before the trip that I’m here to talk to you about. I realised that my suffering will never end if I point the finger outside of myself. It’s important to fully feel your feelings, but being a perpetual victim of your life at some point gets boring. Suddenly, locating my agency became urgent, and something in me snapped.
Almost a month before this trip, I shaved my head bald. It was happening. Things are crumbling down, and life is asking me to break my own heart again. The only thing missing is a trip.
I protest, but I don’t have the money. For a few months, I’ve been back and forth with this retainer company in Scotland. I paid for a home kit, as it was cheaper than going in person. You take the impression at home with this putty mould thing and send it back by post.
It was such a faff, and my impressions were always missing something, and they weren’t being approved. A few weeks ago, a light bulb went off in my head, and I thought, “ Let me ask if I can do it in person at their lab.” And to my surprise, they said, yes, you can and they won’t charge me the extra bit. Sometimes I look back at synchronicity, and I’m always amazed. Scotland is very far from England, but many cheap flights take you there directly in just an hour. So I booked to go there by plane and return by taking the long route back to England by train, as that was cheaper than getting a flight back. It was a strange choice because it would have definitely been more convenient for me to pay a tiny bit extra, which wasn’t a lot, to also get the plane back. But again, synchronicity has a weird energy to it. I felt like the gods had something up their sleeve.
The UK has been going through a heat wave over the past few weeks, and it was hitting the south of England, where I live, the worst. My sleep became messed up even though my huge and annoyingly loud fan has been blasting throughout the night. It was no different the night before my trip to Scotland. I could not sleep, and my flight was at 7 AM, meaning I had to be up at the latest at three in the morning. Luckily, the airport is only 20 minutes drive from my flat, but I don’t like to take chances. I said to my therapist the day before, I have no business shooting an episode of Come Fly with Me.
Since I couldn’t sleep, I went on a walk at sunset and on my way back, I saw a dead crow.
I’ve seen dead animals before and even dead birds, but never a dead crow. It was lying between the wild flowers and the vaguely defined footpath covered by its own regal black feathers. As that day was one of the hottest days of the heat wave, the likely cause of death was due to heat stroke, as there was no blood, foul play or decay. My anxiety went through the roof. Why am I seeing a dead bird when I’m getting on a plane in less than 24 hours? This is not any flight; it’s my first flight in three years, one that I couldn’t have planned for. What sealed the anxiety was how similar the archetypes of birds and planes are; they facilitate travel and mobility across lands and act as a bridge between time portals. Is this a bad omen for tomorrow’s flight? The strange thing I noticed was that the anxiety didn’t totally eclipse my other senses. A part of me knew that seeing this death was a symbol for change. that tomorrow’s flight and the events that followed would usher in a perspective and a knowing that would take me over a bridge I could never come back from. A bigger plan beyond my limited periphery was already in motion. I would be asked to deviate further from the path I was on.
When I came back from the walk, there were only a few hours till I needed to be up for my flight.
Despite putting my fan on the highest setting, my flat was a sauna. Minutes after I showered, I lay like a starfish on my bed with nothing covering me and begged for sleep to seize me. I said, please.
I have a horrendously long day ahead of me. I got a no. So I lay there and rested my eyes and body till it was time to go.
Day of travel
I got to the airport two hours before my flight, which was a good move as security took almost an hour. There were lines and lines filled with stressed parents of toddlers and retired couples, all eager to escape the familiarity of their daily lives, just like me, except they were probably going somewhere far enough to indulge this fantasy. I was carrying a large backpack and a pouch carrying my passport and a mirrorless camera. My bags were put to the side, which warranted further examination. The staff member who called for my bag told me to open it. I assumed this meant to open it and take my stuff out, too. She panicked and yelled, don’t touch. I froze and thought, shit.
What the hell was that? I’m not sure if my memory is distorted, but I definitely remember taking my stuff out of my cabin bags when it was called out when I last travelled. Can so much have changed in three years?
It remains a mystery to me. I politely asked if she meant to only open the zipper. I could see her come back to the moment, and she confirmed, yes, I will take the stuff out. I just need you to open the zipper.
The thing that was flagged up was my mango sticky rice box that I sellotaped around in a rush that morning so that the coconut milk wouldn’t leak. I silently prayed they wouldn’t throw it out.
It was less about the money and more about the fact that I am starving and no food in the airport is both dairy-free and gluten-free. I’m already running on no sleep; we can’t add an empty stomach to that.
The box was put in a machine, and the signal came back as okay. In doubt, she asked her colleague, “ Is this okay?” And he replied, “If you don’t know, just throw it away.” She paused and muttered, ”But it’s just lunch.” In my head, I was screaming, “ Yes, it’s just food, please.” Thankfully, it was returned in one piece. Off I was with an hour to spare for my flight. First call, coffee. Then find a place facing a window showing the planes taking off and eat my mango sticky rice. Success.
Boarding was a breeze, the flight took off and landed 30 minutes early. My appointment was half 11, including an hour travel to the dental lab. I had about an hour and a half to spare. But I was greeted by grey clouds and a chilling wind. Despite being in Glasgow, Scotland, I remembered that I was still in the UK. The weather app predicted a high of 21 degrees, and that’s the weather I dressed for. I know the north of the country is significantly colder than the South, but this surprise really was a deadly plot twist. I was greeted by thick grey clouds and a chilling temperature of 13 degrees.
I bought a day ticket on the first bus app that included the airport Express buses, which is what Google suggested. As I got on the airport Express in my athletic shorts and denim shirt, I sat on the upper deck as the rest of the passengers began to take their seats. This middle-aged white woman sat down and opened all the windows next to her as the bus began to speed on the highway.
She proceeded to put her sunglasses on as though she was lying on a beachfront house. Meanwhile, a couple of passengers in front of me and I were visibly descending into the North Pole. Little did I know that this was a foreshadowing that I and hypothermia would become well acquainted over the next eight hours.
When I arrived in Glasgow city centre, covered in something between frostbite and chills, I ran into a coffee shop as I needed time to map out my onward journey, charge my phone and retreat from the cold. But the bloody AC was on. Why is the AC on when it’s 13 degrees outside and the sky looks like it’s getting ready for a funeral? I immediately decided I needed to find somewhere to buy a hoodie and some joggers. This was not in my budget, but the alternative is to perish. So I Googled for shops, praying there was a Primark somewhere. Prayer denied. There were high street stores selling hoodies for almost 30 quid. I guess I will just have to freeze.
Luckily, it was time for me to get on the bus to the dental clinic anyway. I had missed the express bus, so I had to take the longer bus connection. I got on to scan my e-ticket, and it was denied. In a dismissive hand wave, the driver demanded that I just get on. He gave no explanation why my ticket was denied or that I had to pay for the correct ticket.
Although I didn’t know why my ticket was denied, what I do know is that his hand wave was a power move, not benevolence or generosity. It was centred around his convenience and comfort, and not letting something challenge his preconceived notions about my motives. When I arrived and was heading out the door, which is positioned adjacent to the driver’s seat, he said, “Next time, get the right ticket” in a condescending, passive-aggressive way. So many thoughts ran through my head. I’m sleep deprived, cold and hungry. These are moments that I don’t trust the civil part of me to appear.
But I took a gamble and calmly went back, looked him in the face and said, “ It’s my first time in Glasgow. So I don’t know how the buses work here. This was the recommended ticket for accessing buses in the city.” I was naive to assume that this exchange was about the truth. He had already profiled me and projected some bullshit the minute my ticket was denied. When I finished explaining, he threw a leaflet at me and said, “Now you know”
For my astro nerds, it was just over 12 hours since Mars was in an exact square to Pluto. Being an astrologer doesn’t mean I’m immune to falling for this kind of rubbish.
I got off the bus a little heavy, angry and confused. When I told my therapist a few days later, she said he probably hates his life and job and was looking for any reason to discharge that onto someone.
That made sense. I thought, what better than discharging it onto a lost tourist looking person who’s at the mercy of locals to guide them. Rather than using that power to assist, he made a choice to be a bully, externalising his own victim complex.
With less than an hour to my appointment and more bus rides away from the clinic, I check Google Maps, and the next bus is in an hour, and I shriek, “Where the hell am I?” There were no visible shops, just a long stretch of residential houses, which, under circumstances where my battery isn’t at 3%, would be fine. I decide to put the 3% to the test and call an Uber.
Even after paying for the extortionate option, which is supposed to be quicker, Uber said there are no drivers in the area. I was too tired to panic, so I walked along the road hoping for a cafe to magically appear. And luckily it did. I wandered inside, bought a bottle of water and asked if I could use the socket to charge my phone. The previous chatter and bustle in the cafe went to a halt, and I didn’t notice until I felt eyes on my back.
One thing about me is that I am oblivious to my surroundings most of the time. I’m in my own world. So, for me to have noticed the shift means I definitely was not imagining it. I would not have known I was the only black person in the cafe and maybe in that whole village if they had never forced me to be aware of it.
I call my taxi, and within minutes, I am in the cab, less than 10 minutes from the clinic.
I was seen fairly quickly, got all my scans done and was told my retainers would be ready in two hours, so I could go and come back or wait in the reception. I opted for the latter. Where will I go in this remote village with no car and no bus links? As the two-hour mark was up, the receptionist asked me if the dentist knew I was waiting here. I said, yes. She said she’d be down when it’s ready. It’s past the time, but I didn’t want to pester her just in case she was running just a little late. She asked if I wanted her to go ask for an update, and I said yes, please.
This part really triggered my inner child upon reflection, because although the receptionist willingly offered to get an update for me, I was afraid that asking for something completely reasonable and in my rights would “get me in trouble” and that my intention would be misunderstood and mistranslated.
I realised, and this is only as I write this, that I was more comfortable being forgotten and invisible than asking to be noticed or seen. Growing up being invisible was safe, even if you suffered emotional pain, because you wouldn’t risk being misunderstood, projected onto, or punished as a result.
Within a few minutes, the dentist, visibly flustered, came with a medium-sized brown box in her hand and began defending her lateness in a thick Scottish accent. I couldn’t follow what she was saying. Any time I asked for clarification, she looked annoyed, but was smiling through her teeth and kept interrupting me. I have auditory processing sensitivity and am hella sensitive to energetic distortions.
So when someone is flooded with cortisol and defensive energy, and they speak fast, I genuinely can’t process the linear parts of the information they are communicating. It sounds like a faraway echo, even as the person stands close by.
What I made out was that something went wrong with the scan for my upper retainer. She said nothing I need to redo or worry about. She’ll send the correct upper retainer and extra lower retainers as a gesture of goodwill by post. Of course, I’m grateful for the extra lower retainer, but she clearly said that the scan for the first upper one was wrong, and that’s why she’s sending it in the post with the extra lower one. I didn’t know what was in the box, as I was going to open it when I got home. I thought, let me not press this further. When I got home the next day and opened it, it was both an upper and a lower retainer in there. I asked my therapist if the upper retainer’s scan didn’t show up, which caused the delay, then why did she send me home with a supposed wrong upper retainer and also sent one in the post?
My therapist, being Dumbledore, said immediately, the scan was likely never wrong, and it was an excuse to cover up that she simply forgot about you and gave you an extra pair because she felt bad. Even the receptionist offering to get an update on my behalf was because she knew I’d likely been forgotten.
There’s so much to unpack, but what amazes me is why cover up that you forgot me?
I know many miserable customers would use that as a power move, so she was protecting herself against this, and her cover-up isn’t personal, but I still would have preferred the truth, as that would have been a better experience for me.
I decided to spend some extra money on a taxi all the way back to Glasgow Central train station, where I’d be getting a long train followed by a coach back to Bristol. I had an hour to spare. Once I got to Glasgow Central, I could finally breathe. I could see colour and movement. I could hear different accents and different cultures mingling.
I was starving, and though the weather got slightly warmer after midday, I was delirious from the lack of sleep. Luckily, I found a pizza shop not far from the station that made gluten-free bases and vegan cheese. I was in heaven. Never in my life had I tasted the dough of a thin-crust base that was so juicy, soft, and chewy. It was so delicious that I honestly could have had the dough by itself.
I head back to the station and wait for the platform announcement. My plan for the four-hour journey was to watch the last episode of a K-drama I forgot about and then take a long nap. Well, things didn’t go quite as planned. After getting my Earl Grey Tea, it was announced that the train was delayed. Passengers are asked to wait for further updates. After 20 minutes of the scheduled departure time, the platform was announced, and off I went. As I settled in my window seat, I began to feel a chill slap me across my exposed knees. As the train began moving, it got worse, and now I was shivering.
The AC was turned up so high that it was a shock to my system. Apparently, as the AC setting is automatic, it can’t be changed while the train is moving. I had a t-shirt I was wearing under my shirt that I put on my knees for a little insulation, but when I look back, that T-shirt did nothing. My bones were hurting in the same way they did when I had COVID years back. Slowly, the pain spread to my whole body, and I’m certain I was getting some kind of fever. How will I survive four more hours in this ice cave? An hour into the journey, the train stops to a halt, and an eerie announcement escapes through the speakers. We are delayed because of an obstruction at a platform in the Lake District.
We have no idea when or if we will ever be on the move. In other words, we could be stranded in this freezing train, in the middle of a Scottish farm, for the rest of the day. I didn’t have the energy for shock, surprise or tears. I sat there numb with surrender.
Then finally, we were on the move after about an hour and a half, and as the train sped through rolling hills, another eerie announcement ensued. The train will terminate early at Preston, and passengers will have to find their connecting trains to wherever they’re going. I realise I have to get two more trains from Preston to Birmingham. I thought I was supposed to be annoyed by this delay, but I was glad I got to get off the train and walk across the platform with the sun hitting my face because it woke my body up, and the muscular pain decreased. On the next two trains, I sat on the dirty floor near the entrance as the AC didn’t reach there.
When I was looking at my second connection to Birmingham from Crewe, the next departing one would arrive more than 30 minutes past my coach time. I already had an hour and a half gap between the original arrival and my coach, and I realised how long this delay actually went on. I thought, well, everything was weird anyway today. So having to pay for a new coach to Bristol is no big deal. So I looked through all the coach companies available with a connection to Bristol and all train stations. No more coaches or trains are leaving Birmingham when I arrive. The earliest one was the next morning.
Why on earth are there no trains or coaches at 10 p.m on a Wednesday? I was convinced this was an April Fool’s joke, and I refreshed all the apps, and the same results came back.
Again, I surrendered this and realised this out of my control. I had already gone way out of my budget, plus the extra buffer I had for the trip, so getting a hotel really was not in budget. I could feel my body getting ill, and with no sleep in 36 hours, maybe it’s for the best that I grab a hotel for the night. To be fair, if it wasn’t for being on a tight budget, spending the night wouldn’t have felt such a drag. I booked a cheap three-star hotel in Birmingham City Centre close to the coach station that had really great reviews and looked clean enough to sleep in for one night. Thankfully, I was also able to amend my coach ticket to the next day for a small fee.
Arrival and overnight stay in Birmingham, West Midlands
When I arrived at Birmingham New Street Station, I desperately looked for a shop open to buy a toothbrush and other necessities. All my skincare was at home, so I would have to do with cleansing wipes and the sunscreen that I carry in my bag. I messaged the hotel if they had towels so that I knew if I could take a shower or not, as no shops selling towels were open, they didn’t answer my question and instead said, welcome for choosing the hotel. I didn’t have the brainpower to wonder why they didn’t answer my question.
I’m starving, but none of the late-night shops offered food that is gluten-free. So I got fries from Taco Bell. I always walk around with my prescription sunglasses, even at night, because I’m sensitive to fluorescent light and artificial lighting and other people’s eyes both make my head and my eyes hurt. It’s overstimulating. I see and hear too much when I look in the eyes of dozens of passersby.
When I went into Taco Bell’s in New Street Station, I realised how much this city has changed. I grew up in Birmingham. I moved out when I was 18. I used to visit every few months between the ages of 18 and 24 during my spring and summer breaks. But from the age of 25, I think I went for less than a full day on one or two occasions.
As I ordered a small portion of fries at the kiosk and went to the side for my number to get called out, a young server kept staring at me until they came up to me and said they liked my sunglasses while scanning me up and down. I thanked them and said they are prescription sunglasses. I always say this to people, so they know that my sunglasses are not a fashion statement or a tool to conceal my identity. The whole restaurant kept staring and whispering ever since I came in. The same server asked, “You came all the way here just for fries?” I said, “Yes, because the fries here are nice”. And in a flustered tone, he agreed to this statement. Whatever bad feeling or shame he was trying to hand me like a hot potato, I failed to catch for him. This was not conscious on my part, but it’s a failure I am proud of.
I patiently waited, but I could hear the rest of the servers in the kitchen fussing over where my fries were and who would hand them to me. Then, when I got my fries, I asked the cashier if they had the hot sauce, and he pointed to where it was as I went to grab it behind the till. He said, “We also have mayo!” with dewy, starstruck eyes. He continued, “I really like mayo” in an innocent voice. The boy looked less than 18.
I thought something strange was happening ever since the train I was on from Crewe to Birmingham. From the servers in Taco Bells with star-struck eyes and the passengers on the train who would make small conversation with me and smile at me as I walked by. This is a city where I suffered a lot of trauma that has practically sent me into lifelong therapy. Yet oddly, the city was both welcoming me and saying goodbye to me. It felt like all the work I’d done over the past decade would only be taking me further away, but it’s as though the universe was also trying to cheer me up and show me how far I’d come from the kid who left from this very station at 18 carrying a leopard print suitcase to the 30 year old me making adult choices that younger me could only dream of. Although I was uncomfortable with these strangers treating me like an undercover celebrity because of some stupid sunglasses, I always see the world through an inner and an outer gaze. Regardless of the noise outside, for me, this trip was a soul retrieval. I don’t know where life will take me in the near future, but I know my guides orchestrated this side quest to help me retrieve parts that were still trapped in this prison-like ghost town. They knew I would need as much of myself to go on to the next chapter of my life. that time isn’t linear. that I brushed shoulders and healed many younger fragments who were wandering around lost and looking for a home that never wanted them back. At 30 years old, through these strange turns of events, my soul guided me back there. I was always going to be the one who rescued me. Hometowns are funny places. They spit you out when you’re young, and once you come of age, they pretend like nothing ever happened, as though they always knew you would come back to collect yourself, only to travel further away.
As I was walking around the city centre, the map said the hotel was an 11-minute walk. I walked around in circles, wondering how I could have forgotten a landscape that I knew like the back of my hand just over a decade ago. I gave up and asked a stranger who also couldn’t get her brain and words to connect. As I wandered in the dark, I thought, maybe it’s good that I’d forgotten this city.
Maybe that shows how far away I’ve been from this apocalyptic nightmare I escaped. I grew up being surveilled in this city, being forced to wear heavy garments because of a chauvinistic male sky god, who sexualised underage female children. I left as soon as I was 18. The psychological impact of growing up in a cult was very similar to being incarcerated. Studies show that people who have served time in jail or have been confined in some kind of institution, even after their release, will still live like prisoners. I can relate to this. There are points where I unconsciously imprison myself before someone else has the chance to. Even after 12 years, I still catch myself in postures that I was in at 14, dragging those garments in the streets of Birmingham. It’s muscle memory, and the body’s way of telling a story that’s still seeking resolution, a profound answer that will explain it all. Each time I encounter this wall, I have to break my own heart and say, there is no grand answer, and there’s no turning back the clock. We have to be here now. We have to move forward and bring ourselves back to our real home, which is inside.
I arrive at the hotel and offer my details for checking. I then ask about the towels I messaged about, and in a passive-aggressive way, I am told that everything you need is in your room. What is that supposed to mean? Anyways, I was too tired.
As soon as I buzzed myself in my room, I stripped my clothes off and threw them on the floor, used the loo, and ate my cold fries. I was really happy that there was complimentary lemon and ginger tea because I needed something to settle these fries.
Checkout was at 12 p.m and my coach to Birmingham was around half 11 in the morning. I slept like a whale for over nine hours and still had more left in me, but I wanted to get breakfast without rushing and maybe do my morning pages before I head out. I decided to wake myself up with another cup of lemon and ginger tea.
Now that I was refreshed and ready to leave, I had this realisation that I am more mobile and adaptable than I give myself credit for, that I needed this break in my daily routine, which was beginning to feel like Groundhog Day in Bristol. I needed the spark to come back to me. I’ve had a dream to travel the world or at least live semi-omnisciently since I was 18. Life happened, and this trip reunited me with that 18-year-old version of me in Birmingham New Street Station.
A part of me woke up. There is no later, I thought. There is only now. Of course, living semi or fully nomadically requires careful consideration of logistics and finances. But I’m a strong believer in alignment. I think what’s been holding me back over the last decade was resisting aligning myself with a more uncertain timeline, where I was free. I knew there was a price I had to pay for this freedom, and maybe the universe was waiting for my prefrontal cortex to grow before throwing me out in the wild. Before this trip, I had an illusion that being stationary meant being safe. Everyone is different. Some people need a permanent base to feel grounded, and maybe in a decade or so, I will also feel like that. But for now, being stationary is beginning to feel like a prison cell.
Returning to Bristol
I was staring out the window of my coach to Bristol with a bagel in my hand. As the coach sped out of the city, it went past the road where the childhood home I grew up in is located. I felt exhaustion mixed with the relief. I didn’t really feel like I was in my body for the past 12 hours. But my gut told me the flight had already taken off. There’s no point in looking back. You’ve already broken your own heart again.
As I write this, the pudding that I’m eating expires on the 7th of July(7/7). My life path number is seven. The hotel room number that I stayed in Birmingham was number 707, which reduces to double seven. I know this side quest that the universe orchestrated was very much fated, and I’m grateful for it.
As soon as I opened the door to my flat, I felt flat and numb. Pun intended. I could feel the air of change thickening in my lungs and the same numinous energy surrounding my energy field as it did when I came back from my trip in Morocco in 2023. A chapter is closing again, and my conditioned self is losing power over it.
Painting over a crumbling wall won’t stop it from crumbling. A plant can’t grow in a pot that’s too small. There’s a part of me that can’t arrive on the scene called my life until I break my own heart, again.
Something is already dead. The only thing left is to give it a funeral and send it off well.