Three months doing nothing but read IR texts, see an occasional movie, smoke cigarettes and swim in the vast ocean of the web is driving me insane. I feel selfish in that, uprooted from my family, my friends, my job and my country's concerns, all that is left is me. And again these questions of my raison d'être come stealing back like long-buried memories. I am over this period of my life. I am a full-grown adult. I have defined who I am and now have some sort of idea of what I want to be. I am over ruminating about my existence, yet these questions come anyway. It isn't very adult-like.
Here on my little floating island, on my self-fashioned raft, I imagine home. Consciously, my mind's eye has distorted the pictures. Now, three months since I left, home is this beautiful, shining idea. A resort paradise. The pot of gold at the end of that rainbow slide. It is brimming with endless, endless possibilities, beckoning, seducing. An incomplete crossword puzzle, waiting to be filled out, waiting for me. The filth, the ugliness, the stench are filtered out. Pretty, pretty. I dream of home, and imagine home imagining me.
I worried needlessly, to be seduced by comfort and predictability. Now I know, I am a creature of my masochistic country, addicted to pain and struggle, without which, I feel dead.