Travel comedown, I fricking hate it. It batters my body whether I’ve been across the Atlantic or just popped over to Dublin for a couple of days. And it wounds my soul, leaving it cracked and splintered like the screen of the iPad I dropped something on the other day and cannot afford to replace.
I’m lonely. My son is always great company and travelling with him was especially lovely so I miss him all the more now. I’m not well enough physically to be out catching up with friends today either so the lonely grows.
And once again I’m broken into pieces by the realisation that money and health prevent me from living a more adventurous life. I have to spend eleven months of the year nurturing my wanker of a body into the sort of shape that allows me to go grocery shopping now and then, and then hope that for the odd weekend or maybe a fortnight I can push that body way beyond its limits in order to see new sights and spend time with loved ones.
Yes, there are worse lives than mine, I’m not a fool. But it continues to feel as though I’m playing a life game called Diminishing Returns and that one day, before I know it all I’ll have are memories to replay in my saddened heart and nothing but surgical interventions and goodnight from Stevie to look ahead to.
Travel comedown. It makes me a melancholic twat.