My Dublin. That’s a bit narcissistic, don’t you think? Assuming I can even call Dublin “mine” when I have been here barely three weeks. Wow. Has it been that long already? I feel as if I had just flown in yesterday. My eyes are sore. My muscles ache. The constant movement from class to residence to bus to city to restaurant keeps my stomach craving such a high volume of food that I’m not quite sure if its due to this increase in movement or an increase in stress. It is so hard to focus. It would have been nice to think that I would have been a little better settled, or relaxed. Then, I think back to my life in States.
My America is an endless tug-of-war between duty and dedications. I coordinate a convention. I attend university. I contribute to a college life blog. I helped with beta testings and beta fish. In my free time, I study Japanese and write. Which I do for my work. So, writing is more or less this grey area for me. Something I’m both dedicated to and have a duty towards. The more I type–or write about it–the more I recognize: My Dublin isn’t very different from me at all.
My Dublin still eats when it doesn’t need to, puts off work for the solace of a pillow, gets up too early to do work because of the pillow, runs around like a maniac taking pictures of everything when its not doing work, and still doesn’t like to eat scones. It doesn’t get home sick, but doesn’t forget about its family either. It eats healthy; it drinks Americano; and it speaks with a worldly accent that resembles Australian.
My Dublin likes thinking I’m Australian. And I like it liking it.