Don’t You Forget About Me

“Out there it’s like I’m someone else I thought that maybe I could find myself…. But I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am.”- Miranda Lambert “The House That Built Me.”

I’m sorry it’s been ages since I wrote. I have been über busy working 14 hour days selling people their cowboy boots and finding the pairs that people didn’t put back. Fun times. Actually, I do enjoy the work, and it keeps my mind from missing people. People who may not remember me like I remember them.
I sit here, late at night staring at the city lights, and I wonder if they ever think of me. Will they remember me? And how? Am I the girl who stayed up till four in the morning helping the hostel manager hang pictures on the wall? Am I the one who sat at the bus stop and invited a stranger to spend the day at the beach together rather than both alone? Maybe I’m the girl who burst into tears in the cafe while quickly scribbling words of homesickness. Will they remember me as one of the guys or as the girl who was actually hurt when she was suddenly ignored? Maybe I imagined it all and then they wouldn’t remember me anyway. What would I have done that would be memorable? I wonder if they ever think of me as often as I think of them. Do they miss me like I miss them?

This is the problem with having a personality that gets better along with guys rather than girls. The couple girls who I remained friends with email me and we still chat and there is an equal effort from both parties. The guys who make up all the other “them”s are more of the “ill see them when I see them and if I think of them ill send them a text” kinda missers.

I miss the backpackers and travellers. How many of you can relate to my stories of being in a foreign city and instead of going out we sat in the hostel kitchen drinking 49 cent sangria and listening to Bob Marley? Who will smile with me as I tell the stories of the old Spanish men calling out “Guapa! Guapa” and kissing my cheek despite my saying no hablo español? Who will understand why I climbed through shale and grass on a mountain beside the sea in wales only to realize I was in cowboy boots and had to figure out how to get back up? Is anyone going to understand my Liverpool or Birmingham stories of how I walked and got lost on purpose? And more importantly, who cares? Who is going to ask?

Two weeks ago I stepped off the plane full of stories to tell my sister. I got a “you’re so tan!” And then I listened as she told me about her last few weeks of routine. I wasn’t offended. I expected it. My family is big on talking and small on listening. My other sister showed up a few days ago and I don’t think she’s asked or thought about the fact that I was just in 6 different countries. Ill go home and people will ask “how was your trip?” Only so I can give a quick answer and they can tell me about their day. I expect certain family members will greet me and then proceed to tell me about their trips of youthful travel. And like always, I will sit and listen and keep my stories to myself until the right people ask the right questions and actually care about the can’t-be-wrong answers.

In closing, I suppose that I expected to feel like this but it’s lonelier than I expected. Not only am I of no interest to people who haven’t left, but I am a ghost of a memory to others who I think of daily. I found myself in this big old world. I just don’t fit quite as comfortably back into my old Routines and ideas.
I read a quote a whole back. It goes “people look at me and say I changed. Like I worked this hard to stay the same.” But now I’m confused because I feel like maybe if my friends from back home were to tell my friends from the world about me and vice versa it might take a while for them to realize they were describing the same person.
One thing they’d probably all get right: “she thinks too much.” If I had a dime for every time people have told me that.

I hope this wasn’t a sad post. I am tired though so although its just another rambling post a little exhaustion may have seeped through the lines. I miss you dear world. I will try to be more diligent in keeping up to date. Enjoy your Calgary stampede.
Good night,world. All my love, Sarah.


One thought on “Don’t You Forget About Me

  1. Those memories are making you what you are. Sort of the LEGO building blocks of experiance. What is your happiest travel memory? How about your best Stampede moment? If you are making anyone’s feet feel good and look good for years to come you have certainly contributed to their happiness. Like ripples of interconnectiveness! Do you get a discount on your next pair of cowboy boots? Lucky, lucky you, if so!

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