(no subject)

This is a placeholder post until I actually am coherent enough to write.

Packing commences!

The Letter V Six Times

On the plane. It's quarter to midnight my time, but quarter to eight where I'm going.

Already I'm missing Canada. England just fills me with dread - can't help it. Doesn't have anything to do with Jane or Dad - love the both of them - it's just a subconscious thing, I think. Years and years and years of traveling back and forth, back and forth, over the Atlantic and being divided between two sets of parents, one of whom I looked up to as a benevolent figure of mercy, and the others as my keepers, more or less.

I was an angry kid who hated the country he was being raised in and hated feeling so miserable and felt that England was his punishment. I was the kid who completely IDOLIZED his mom, partly due to the absence of her in his life at a time when he was going through one of the hardest periods of his life, where concepts like rejection and discontent were things to learn. I'm sure that time of my life could've been potentially miserable in Canada too, don't get me wrong - I was a weird kid any way you sliced it. But maybe I could've been more accepted at least... my accent wouldn't have been different. I wouldn't have been from "elsewhere" as much, just... different.

Different lessons. Different pathways of my life. Journeys unexplored, or perhaps they are being explored, my consciousness branching off into new directions of possibility. Anyway, now I'm treading an old, old pathway of mine... the airport terminals might change, the executive class might get fancier and fancier every couple of years, but economy class is still the same as ever, with the exception of no peanuts, portable touch screens and even more cramped seating. (Or maybe that's just my height, now.)

I never look forward to going to London. And now I'm starting to figure out why... because going back to London always signalled the end of paradise for me, a reprieve from sorrow, the beginnings of toil. It would bhe the time where I'd have to put my armour back on, stop smiling, and once again take on the school I'd been condemned to. So I never get excited about coming... I never quite empathize with those who get excited on my behalf when I tell them. And I annoy friends who genuinely love London and all its magic whenever I speak of my own bad experiences, because it's a heavy, weighted blanket that shrouds the good memories I've had there too.

And I don't mean to ruin anyone's fun. I don't want to anger or offend anyone by talking about where I come from, emotionally, when I speak about my time in the UK. But I still have a long way to go until I can say to myself: Yes, once upon a time I was a child who believed he was a bad person before he was born because life punishes people when they're bad in a past life. I was a child who used this to rationalize his world of pain, and this irrational worldview has followed me like a ghost ever since. And it all started in one place that I may always associate, to some degree, with those emotions, that timeframe.

I will genuinely enjoy my Christmas in London, I think. I'm looking forward to seeing friends; looking forward to plays; looking forward to giving Dad and Jane their presents. I'm looking forward to a break from school, and yes, I'm even looking forward to the change of scenery.

And one day, I hope I'll be able to turn my back on all those memories and kiss them goodbye. One day, I hope to be free of this.