i don't like what's happening in my mind

I had a dream growing up 

that I would leave this place

and travel the world.

I would fall in love with 

handsome foreigner,

settle down and raise kids 

with more of an upbringing 

that their father had. 

I left for England when I was 23,

thinking that this was finally,

finally,

it. 

I created a whole new life there.

I created a whole new person. 

One who was comfortable 

in my own skin,

and one who was comfortable 

letting someone else love 

my own skin as well. 

I had to go back home,

back to where I was raised.

I had barely left and I already missed

the trains, the concerts, the nights out,

the man I had learned to love.

The only trace left of the person 

I had become was him, 

and when he left, 

that person ceased to exist. 

I was back to who I was 

when I was just dreaming. 

I thought that’s all 

I would ever do. 

I dreamt and adorned rose coloured glasses 

to where I wanted to create another

new me. 

And as quickly as dreams happen, 

mine started coming true again. 

I thought this was it.

This was finally,

finally,

it. 

Korea would be different,

I wouldn’t be coming back home. 

I’d fall in love all over again.

I’d settle into a new job,

a new life,

a new person. 

Dreams are rocky.

They don’t always happen 

the way you dreamt them to. 

They’re filled with holes

that you don’t know how to fill.

And dreams turn into nightmares. 

There I was in the place

I had dreamt of living for so long. 

Where the cherry blossoms fluttered 

and history flowed through the streets

like a river.

The same river that flows right through

the city. 

I didn’t want to leave.

I really truly didn’t. 

But I would’ve died 

if I had stayed.

I wouldn’t be me anymore. 

I wouldn’t even be a new person.

I would just be a shell

of who I was.

All the lives I had lived,

all the places I had experienced,

dead and empty. 

Reality can do that to you. 

Part of me was excited, elated 

to be going back home,

back to my family, friends, 

and my cat whom I genuinely believed

hated me for leaving. 

I knew I would miss the lake, 

the trees, the concerts, the food,

the simplicity of being financially stable.

As I get further away from my last day there, 

I wonder if I had made a mistake. 

I want to go back,

I need to go back,

to try again,

to see if it works this time. 

My dream is go back 

and to stay. 

But the more I dream

about going there,

the more I forget 

that I did in fact 

achieve my dream.

The more I dream

the more I forget that I lived there.

That I did start to build a life there, 

a life that I wasn’t ready to give up. 

My dream is turning into what ifs. 

What if I did this.

What if I went there. 

What would happen if I did that. 

My memories,

the things I actually did,

that I actually experienced,

are turning into shower thoughts. 

They’re separating in my hands

and dissolving as soon as 

they hit the water. 

I can’t remember if they were real.

And I hate knowing that they are.