pulled in a hundred directions

i find it so hard to rationalise having friends all over the world

because when i travel, i’m leaving somewhere that i know, with people who i love, to go and spend time with another place, in another place, so far away from anything known. and yet when i’m there i can’t help myself from meeting amazing amazing people who become as much my friends as my people at home. and when i’m home, i wish i could be with them. and when i’m away, be it with them, or exploring places new, i miss home. and all the things i had at home. people, and places, and plans; birthdays, weddings, funerals. festivals, traditions, gossiping over coffee on a dull day - all the same characters, people who’ve been problems, situations for years and yet still litter our ears and poison our mouths when we meet. but i miss it all. every day. even when i am seeing the most amazing things with the most wonderful of people. so what is the answer? i don’t know

travel often? but i miss home. i miss the mountains and the hills and the seas and my grandparents. i miss the bike rides out when i get fed up i miss the run for the bus and the walk home in the dark from the pub. i miss the days travel just to get from one home to another, the ferry, the long shared waits at either end, the spray of the sea.

travel little? but i get bored. and i ache for all the people i don’t see at home. friends in america, germany, france, the netherlands, italy, hungary, austria, south africa, new zealand, austrailia. i get restless.

i’m yet to find the right balance, but as i sit here with time to myself, properly to myself, with my own space, and i unfold these thoughts from the pangs and heartache and headrush i’ve felt whilst travelling, i’m happy. here, there, everywhere. and yet in the balls of my feet i feel a longing for the next adventure.