“Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.”
Last July, I faced this same problem. As I drove through my mountains listening to Bon Iver, I silently shed tears as I thought of the imminent departure from my home. I was homesick. In my own home. And now, eight months later, I find myself facing a similar reality.
I know it's been said many times, many ways... But I think the world of this place. I traveled far, far away from my home, only to feel like I never really left. My life has become one enormous paradox. I'm leaving home, to return home. I'm returning to the place where everything is simultaneously invariable, and yet downright foreign. The past 219 days have slipped through my fingers the same way the sand does at seashore. I so desperately want to scoop up my last 106 days, and lock them tight in a mason jar for me to hold forever. But of course, that's just not an option for me. As I stand on the brink of turning the page and writing a new chapter, I'm ready to go to war with this homesickness, and face it head on. I'm ready to embrace the pain as a gentle reminder of just how in love with my host country I've fallen, and just how much progress I've made thus far. As for the email, I'll let it sit for a few more days. No need to rush, ehh?