Home sick Home.
It’s like the place I wanted to escape could today be my only refuge. It’s like nothing else matters, than just forget this place and go back. It’s like what I used to call my prison appears now as a cocoon I wish I could go back into.
There was a time I was longing for positive change. There was the time I thought I was living that change, and I thought my life was amazing. There is the time when I understand the words “there is no place like Home”.
There is no reason I should feel that bad about being an alien. They like me for that. I’m not the only one. People are nice, they think I’m exotic. I’m supposed to fit in that myth of the French girl. I ought to be pretty, poetic, romantic, classy. They expect me to have that sparkle of difference. I’m not common-place here, even if I actually am.
Whatever. I’m not one of them. I’m walking down the streets, and I feel they are not like me. They wear slutty clothes when it’s below zero. They are binge-drinking. They have no idea how to dress properly, to hide their fat for example. They are proud of not having a Constitution. They are loud. They eat bad. They think Kronembourg is “a beer of quite good quality”. They consider sex either as an obscene thing or something you have to be vulgar with. They call lipstick “vaseline”. They are crap at languages, just because they consider they don’t need it. They go to nightclubs at 9 pm. They drive in the wrong way. Yet they are quite nice, for some of them.
But the point is that I feel I’m different. I’ll never be one of them. And this place doesn’t feel like home.
The Vines-Autumn Shade II
Looking at the Autumn shade… ♪
But your English is so good that maybe you will believe it’s worth the homesickness! I’m sorry to hear how English girls are nowadays. My friends and I were not quite so bad in the early Eighties, I swear!