There are these days of hollowness, you know?
A day here, where everything falls down and down inside me and nothing reaches the bottom and I never fill up.
A day there, that seems magnified and concentrated, every minute an infinite vacuum, every word an assault, as if every grain of sand in the desert is rubbing off my top layer of skin and exposing the soul underneath. The skin a little peeled back.
You can tell when I have these days. Even if I didn't declare them, like I am now, you just have to look at my language, which becomes increasingly more florid as I search for ways to bring this feeling to life before you, so that you can glimpse, even briefly, the sheer futility I feel even trying to do so.
It's at times like this that I step outside myself and think: what am I doing? What am I doing here, 12,000 miles from home, from My One True Love, from the Sister Of My Heart, from my parents, my friends, the pussins? What on earth possessed me?
I know that for me, part of being an adventurer means balancing - and accepting - these days. That having the courage (or foolishness) to step off a cliff into the unknown means being prepared to face the ground rushing up at you.
I love stepping off into the unknown. I love it - the thrill, the excitement, the surge of feeling that I'm doing something amazing. And so these days are just as much part of me as the inner desire that sends me looking for that feeling.
So I continue.
I drag myself through them, knowing that tomorrow, or the day after, it'll be as if they never happened. And that in the remembering, it make the present sweeter.