Lamest of the lame.

Okay, confession time.

the heart is a complicated and sneaky ol’ thing.

I’m travelling at the mo’. Travel is “my thing”. I use travel as escapism because I don’t know what the shit I am doing with my life.

I purchased flights, booked accommodation, and packed up my (very small) bags to (*cliche alert*) head off into the wide blue yonder to find myself, or something.

I’m 19 days into my supposed year-long trip, during which time I was planning to find somewhere to live, somewhere that I could settle for six months or a year or even longer. (It was New York, but as I mentioned in my previous post I am kind of mentally poo-pooing that idea for now.) I know that I’m in a weird limbo-state, in that I haven’t really gotten over jet lag yet and I know that in nine days, when I fly to South Korea, I am changing time zones again… back to just one hour ahead of Perth. It’s difficult to just relax when I am all over the place, both physically and mentally. I find myself impatiently waiting for the next part of this trip rather than enjoying the moment (= story of my life).

I actually haven’t enjoyed the past 19 days much at all. It seems so awful to say that; how dare I not enjoy my holiday! Truthfully though, I am exhausted, unsure, and missing someone like hell.

One must avail oneself of all matters of the heart before travelling, lest one leave one’s heart at home.

I am really struggling to reconcile my desire to travel with my lonely heart. (I think that’s probably the most pathetic thing I’ve ever written.) Nobody really talks about the fact that travelling does often mean leaving someone behind. I’ve done it twice now, only this time was kind of by accident. (Last time, I met the man boy — he was just 20 — that I would become engaged to (and eventually break up with) the same day that I booked my eleven-month-that-became-five-month holiday to Europe.)

It still sucks the second time.

There seems to be some unwritten rule in the travel world that you have to go for a long time, otherwise you haven’t really travelled. This is particularly true, I feel, for Australians; we’re so far from everything that you must make your time abroad absolutely worth it and see as much as possible for as long as possible, otherwise you may as well have gone to Bali like every other stinkin’ Aussie.

Having planned to be away for a year and then admitting to myself that I don’t know if I want to be away for a year (at least not all in one go) is really difficult, partly because I’m proud as hell and partly because I feel weak somehow, like admitting that I have normal human emotions like longing and love makes me a lesser person. Seasoned travellers are supposed to be able to forget about home, right? Adventure above all!

But… it’s difficult to adventure when you’re missing someone. When I was 23 and travelling solo and everything was new it was relatively easy to push my heart aside and still Do Things (although there were parts of that trip that also really sucked because I was really lonely, but that’s part of travelling alone, surprise surprise). At almost30 though I think I’m ready to share things with another human being. I’ve been single for almost four years, I’ve spent a shitload of time on my own whilst finishing my thesis, and I’m kind of just really, really over myself.

I need someone to decide what happens next. Being an independent adult isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be.