I should write a book. Really. I could even stole the name from tumblr: “Ideas that seemed like good ones at 3 a.m.”. And I know the first sentence too: “But they weren’t”. This book will never be written and it’s pages will never see the daylight I think. But just before 365 days I had totally other thoughts in my brain.
And I was totally the other person.
It was just like one year ago.
One fucking year ago.
I thought that my moving in foreign country was for only one year. I wanted to go back with a little money, study again and be happy with my friends and family. It was an illusion that seemed like a reality. I want to go there but I will stay here too. And this nostalgia is killing me slowly from inside.
I wanted to see the therapist, because I had the first stages of anxiety and depression. I have them now too. But, oh my, they cost so much I won’t be allowed to pay them for next two years. So I’m staying home googling how can I get better. But nothing really helps for the person so sceptical like me.
Nostalgia never ends. All the endings are fake. Just like my will of staying here.