One never wants to receive a text message with the word urgent in it; particularly when it’s from one’s landlord; particularly when one is almost eight thousand miles away from said landlord’s property, with a friend staying there in the interim. Alas it happened and the news is thus: my flat in Bondi, the place I’ve called home for almost two years, the anchor in which my roots lie in Sydney is to be sold by auction in November. I was sitting in Starbucks when I got the news; doing some late night blogging while my other half was rehearsing. The sky outside was dark, and the collective hum of tapping laptops and the whirr of the coffee machine suddenly went very still.
When things like this happen; indeed, when things like this happen sequentially, you have to wonder whether it’s the universe giving you a sign, and wonder at what point do you surrender and decide to start afresh. It’s been a rough and turbulent and fraught year; one in which I’ve yearned for the stability a job, a visa and a home would provide; such simple, every day things, yet ones that have seemingly been so far out of reach.
I currently have two options; return to Sydney as planned, and hope against hope that things will work out, or head back to England to recharge, reset, and figure out what it is I really want, and where it is that my future lies. Going back to England – albeit temporarily – feels like a big move; one in which I’ll have to navigate a new life, while Sydney would be the easier option and one that doesn’t involve any decision making; my return flight is booked; my flat not yet sold.
In times like this it’s often best to listen to one’s instinct; and go with one’s gut. The silence of said instinct is all but deafening.
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