I’ve been back in Melbourne for a fortnight, but it’s hard to put this experience into words. People keep asking me what the coolest thing I saw was and I just stare at them blankly, silently grasping at explanations. Trying to tell them it was never about seeing things; never about watching from afar. It was about moments and experiences and sharing them with other people.
I’ve had dust-covered strangers hug me and welcome me home to a place I’ve never been. I’ve wandered the desert in dust storms so dense I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face… and ten seconds later looked out over a vista that was clear, still and without boundary. I got engaged to a man I’d met 5 minutes earlier, then left him at the altar when the priest wandered off; distracted by stripper poles. I’ve had a moment of utter clarity, prompted by the perfect comment by the perfect person at the perfect time.
I’ve seen (and touched, and climbed) twenty million artworks without understanding any of them, and I fell in love with each and every one. I’ve met the purest souls and the most beautiful people I’ve ever encountered, and had the chance to connect with my dad in a way that I didn’t know was missing from my life. I’ve been with 50,000 people as we danced and screamed and howled at the moon when the fireworks flew and the Man burned… and sat with the same crowd the following night, holding each other and weeping as the Temple burned in silence. I’ve challenged every preconception I had of who I am and what I can do, and I damn well broke most of them.
For that one week, I was home… and I can’t wait to go back.