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He had long lain still—

a once-mighty giant, now a whisper of skin on brittle bones.
A face once sculpted in beauty’s light
now carved by time into creases of sorrow.
He was ancient and yet still young,
dry as deadwood, hollowed by disease.
Only the faint thump of his heart betrayed life—
the only rhythm left in a body long abandoned
by sight, by sound, by feeling.
Pain had drained him to dust.

In his youth, like many men of his fire,
he danced through nights in smoky shebeens,
clinking glasses with strangers and singing his spirit away.
But one night—one choice—
etched a curse that shadowed the rest of his days.
And so, at the crack of dawn
on a quiet Tuesday in July,
he exhaled his last.
I was just a child, barely standing,
but I knew—it was his final breath.

Years later,
I landed on Dharawal land beneath October’s sleepy stars.
The plane touched down—
and so did a new version of me.

As we drove from the airport,
a chill curled along my spine.
I knew no one.
No family. No job. No promise.
Only fear—
raw, honest fear—
of a world I did not know,
and a self I hadn’t yet met.

I closed my eyes in the back of that cab,
and the old me quietly slipped away.

We pulled into a driveway in Moorebank
as the first light brushed the horizon—
a soft gold painting over blue silence.
The air was crisp,
the sky eerily familiar.
I remembered that Tuesday morning,
when my cousin left this world.
And in that moment, I understood—
death can be mercy.
He had suffered long enough.
His exit was not escape—it was justice.
And there was no court left to appeal.

When I paid the cab fare,
when I dragged my bags onto foreign soil,
I whispered to my own soul:
“This is meant to be.”
Fate doesn’t shout.
It murmurs gently, in moments like these.

Years passed.
I learned new streets, new names,
new patterns of rain.
And still—
a hollowness stayed with me.
Like the echo of a funeral song
for someone you loved too much to let go.
That’s the loss of home.
The loss of the me who stayed behind.
There was no funeral, no farewell,
no flowers or vows.
Just an unspoken truth:
The old me had died
at the crack of dawn
on the 8^th of October
at Sydney Airport.

And death—
it isn’t always a body buried.
It’s the tearing of roots,
the unravelling of everything you knew.
Losing love. Losing work.
Losing a sense of place.
Loss breaks you.
But it can also open you.

It opened me.
To silence. To stillness.
To truths I once outran.
I learned that life is a loan,
and joy is temporary.
That everything can disappear
in a click,
in a blink,
in the purchase of a one-way ticket
to a place 11,000 miles from your soul.

In this new land,
I reincarnated.
Here, I learned to:
Live as though the sun may never rise again.
Work like it’s my final curtain call.
Dream like my heart’s last song plays tonight.
Pursue fortune—not with fantasy,
but with the realism of a seasoned soul.

Each morning, I rise—reborn from my ashes.
Not driven by fear of failure—
I’ve seen darker days.
Held empty pockets like prayer beads,
and still, I climbed.

With every sunrise,
I lift my head and look ahead.
To new dreams, new frontiers.
And I chase them—
Relentless. Graceful. Determined.
Because nothing I face
will ever weigh more
than what I’ve already carried.

I cross oceans now.
Wander cities whose names I can barely pronounce.
And even if no one waits for me on the other side,
I know I can always return.
Unlike that fateful dawn in October.

Today, I have choices.
I have laughter at new tables.
I have friends in high towers and quiet corners.
I have homes tucked inside warm hearts.

Such is life—
sometimes,
you must die
to live again.