Homesickness I've discovered can afflict any age even the most stoic of travellers. Its been almost 2 years living the life of a sun worshipping hobo, country hopping back and forth. I have no house to return to so I will be looking upon the kindness of my mother and no job treadmill to run tirelessly along and moan about. And I'm afraid to say pathetic state of finance, going home is dusting of the old rusted bike from the back of a shed and figuring out how to ride it without causing bodily harm. The thought of returning is a knot twisting dread weaved with euphoric butterflies fluttering in excitment, the excitment at the thought of freedom, freedom from the confines of a jam jar bubble.
Living in a sun drenched island would hardly seem like a harsh imprisonment, more of a very relaxed open prison of limited potential, freedom strained by the awakward language barrier and customs, freedom of action to come and go as I please, and the freedom of having money to waste as I please, my life for almost 2 years has been an easy suffocating ride, one which has made me resentful at myself for getting too comfortable and ignoring the bumps and grinds and the building nausea, well the ride is slowly braking to a halt the question is when, the longer it takes to return home the harder it will be for my resolve to clamber over the wall of doubt.
But I think its easier to cast of the amazing technicolour coat of the med when the weather is miserably cold and wet reminding of home
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