1^st of January and I still haven’t gotten my hands on a diary. Stupid, stupid South Indian village this isL. I love it nevertheless. This place has made me; taken so much, given so much more; broken my heart, ripped apart the beautiful self-image had of me; but still I crave for it from thousands of miles away. This is my home now.

This wouldn’t last of course. In a couple of years I’ll move on. Be somewhere else. And that would be my home then. It would feel just like it does now, but still different. That new place will break me, un-make me, re-make me again and again. And no matter how much I resent it in the beginning, it will eventually win me over. But then it would lose me too. There’s another thing that this place has shown me about myself. I can never belong. At least not for a prolonged period of time. Not to a place, not to an object, not to an idea, and definitely not to a person.