all mine | ft. michael clifford

one;

As it turns out, it's a lot easier to pretend to be someone else than it is to be yourself. Wear the right clothes, listen to the right music, cut your hair to the right length and dye it the right shade of the right colour. It's easy. It's expected. It's normal. What isn't normal? Dying your hair pale pink and expecting to go unnoticed by the majority of the general human population. I wasn't looking for attention. I was looking, as usual, for myself. Am I supposed to be the me with pink hair or the me with bright blue hair? I didn't know and as I got off the plane I'd been sitting on for fourteen hours, I still hadn't decided whether people were looking at me funny because of my dye choices or because I didn't belong in Los Angeles.

Still, I heaved my moderately heavy suitcase off of the bag conveyor and walked through all of the body checks that were apparently necessary until I was able to push my way into the main lobby of the airport. I'd always wondered what LA would seem like, feel like, in reality. Would it be the same as it was in all of the movies? Would it grant all of my wishes and make all of my dreams come true? A little far-fetched, I know, but I still expected a little more than what I was getting. And what was I getting? The smell of hotdogs and the sound of too many hellos and goodbyes in one space to the point where it made my head feel dizzy.

Where were all of the superstars? The actors? Singers? The somebodies? Why weren't they everywhere like I'd thought they would be?

Breathe, Charlotte, I told myself. It's just the airport.

I'll be honest with you, I didn't come all of this way expecting some miracle to happen. I wasn't like that and I didn't believe that miracles just happened. You had to do that yourself and the only reason I'd bought a one-way ticket to the most well-known place in the world was because I wanted to know what it felt like to start from scratch. I wanted to know what it was like to have nothing. I'd spent my whole life having everything and if I'd learnt anything from that, it was that money isn't as fun as one would think. Money isn't the center of a person's being and as much as my parents had and gave me, there was still nothing I could buy that would tell me who the hell I was.

So here I was, searching. Finding. Experiencing. Living.

When I went home, if I went home, I would know what I wanted. I would know how to earn it. I would trust myself.

Until then, I was here and here was a place that screamed uncertainty. The butterflies in my stomach were the size of small birds, flapping and knocking at my insides - begging to be set free.

I inhaled. Exhaled. And walked.

The doors to the main exit of the airport were guarded by cheerful men doing quick detector checks. I smiled at the man who did mine and he smiled back before ushering me out into this bright new world.

***

STEP ONE: FIND A PLACE TO STAY.

Buildings lined the streets, some looking worn, some looking healthy, some looking out of place. All looking unfamiliar and exciting.

I pushed my hair behind my ear, regretting my choice not to bring any hairbands with me as the freezing wind brushed by me like an unwanted touch. My pale pink blur of hair fell down my back in waves that were uneven and messy. I liked the colour but wasn't sure yet if it was me. I also wasn't sure how I'd ever know what was me if I wasn't sure who me was.

There was always time.

It was cold out, the third of January, middle of winter in America.

The temperature change from summery Australia to wintry America was unexpectedly uncomfortable and I wished I'd layered my clothing a little more. The faded grey sweater I had on was too thin to keep my body from shivering.