the comfortability of the homeland, of the familiar furniture, of where we have sat for so long beckons us back to the well worn seat in the butt-consuming sofa, to see the last whatever days, weeks, months as dreams, abstract from your reality.
where you ever really there?
you have the photos and the new friends and the memories, but the state of mind in which we drank up such scenes and experiences is lost, even rereading a travel diary (of which i couldn't make myself write) loses the immediate sensation of floating around in a completely different climate, culture and circumstances. and i think that's what tourist really do, float. a lot of them don't have the time or money to submerge themselves and after the initial culture shock of being plunged into deeper waters, they find the surface and float.
are we every really anywhere?
i'm throughly enjoying my trip and while i may seem cynical, that's just part of my writing that's hard to discard. it's not my world, but i still hope to do something for it.
i'll take something from this.
and check out big brother mouse.