I’ve been writing a lot about my travels, but hardly ever go beyond the surface of things. How is life? Of course when you’re in Europe things seem shinier, the boys are always beautiful and each day is coated in the glory and satisfaction that you are far, far away. I love this. I love being far away, and I love remembering that I’m far away. It adds to the complexity of being unattainable, or at least distant. I hate this.

Things have been good, yes. To leave it at this — at ‘good’ — is to ignore the underlying verity of my mind. This has been the hardest thing. Not ever, but certainly a genre of difficultly that I have not encountered. I still wake up each day with the delight of a new journey at hand. I’ve seen more in six weeks than I’ve seen in my life’s entirely: Oxford, Stonehenge, London, Ireland, Paris, Rome, cathedrals, castles, rivers, people and beyond. I’ve been fortunate enough to experience these days, to spend carelessly and worry little. Never has my life been as carefree as it is at this time, and I worry: Will it ever be again? When I leave this city, can I return? And when?

What then, is the difficulty? I’ve gone confidently with uncharted direction and made it this far. I’ve been surrounded by twenty or so, every day along the way. Together we saw the Eiffel Tower, the Roman Baths, Pisa. I’ve hardly felt more alone.

Things have been good, but all I really want to do is sleep with the comfort that I can wake up and see the people that make home, home. Those that know me from the core and to a ‘T’, that are a part of my life not because we are thousands of miles from home together, but because they willingly desire to be a part of my life.

Everyone needs someone, and right now everything feels so far away. And I’d just love a nice, close hug.