Never stable, never stopping. Always moving, always packing bags. Forever flying, forever regretting.
I hate packing my bags. It gives me a sense of being unsettled, not truly having a home. If I visited different places every time, I would probably take it in my stride and think of it as exploring the world, but travelling back and forth from the same places to feels like I don’t belong in either place.
The only stability I find is among friends. I bless the days I met each of them. I remember them, treasure them dearly. They have stood by me, not forgotten I care even though I’ve never been very good and keeping in touch. I heard it said that true friends never abandon you – I can testify to that.
Friends look after each other, make sure you’re doing ok, you always check to see how they’re doing… It really is like one of Sheldon’s unwritten social contracts…except that I don’t see it as a “contract” or an “agreement” – it’s what friends do, regardless of circumstance.
I seek no gratification through compliments. In fact if my friends told me I was being a “dumb-arse fucktard” (yes, I’m British. It’s “arse”, not “ass” –> “backside”, not “donkey”) I’d take it as them caring even more by the simple fact that they thought I wasn’t being me anymore.
Still…I find myself in the position of being caught between worlds. I am part student, part free-thinker, part British, part Sicilian, part individualistic, part socialite, part loner, part lover, part sex addict, part ascetic, part hedonist, part stoic, part philosopher, part scientist, part pagan, part here, part there, part “past me”, part “present me”, part “future me”, part son, part brother, part uncle. Always trying to better myself, always trying to do more than is possible, always knocking myself for the fact I can’t do it all, but never giving myself a break.