“Where am I?”
“What am I doing?”
“What the fuck was that!?”
Those are some of the questions I routinely find myself asking. Even before I left the comforts of the UK they would form a daily interrogation of unease at what my life had become. ‘Go to school, go to University, get a good job’ is the mantra drilled into me and countless others from a young age; a sure-fire way to happiness for the rest of your life, apparently. Looking back, I doubt the collective of lizards chanting that mantra ever believed it could be a successful pursuit for happiness, but once you’ve had the crushing realisation of all attempts at creative endeavours being immediately thwarted, it might be hard to imagine an alternative.
Regardless of the motives, that had not worked for me in the slightest. To the point of driving me to take my life savings, fly to the other side of the world and sit here bitching about how much it has not worked for me.
“Where am I?” Everywhere. Nowhere. Somewhere. Sometimes still, sometimes moving. Usually a little bit lost, both mentally and physically. I’m taking my time on a long, slow return home, if I might call it that, aiming to see as much of this wonderful and terrible world on the way as possible. There is a rough route planned, though it is not set in stone. Not least because I’m too lazy to plan any more than two days ahead at any one point (how my 18-year-old self would be having an anxiety-induced sweat fest) but also because I’ve never witnessed anything go down in flames quite so spectacularly as my previous attempts at long term travel planning.
“What am I doing?” I don’t know, really. Avoiding responsibilities? Making a huge mistake? Terrifying my grandparents?
All of the above and taking pretty pictures and writing drunken, cynical blog posts along the way to prove it, all the while hoping some publishing head honcho will take pity on me and pay me to spill further embarassment.
“What the fuck was that!?” …Yeah, what the fuck was that?
Ramblings of a Lost Englishman 