Holidays: they are wonderful but they are never what you think they will be. They are advertised as restorative, relaxing, refreshing. The idea is that you will return renewed and reinvigorated and I always feel perhaps put back together again. You will have slept until your body rather than the alarm woke you, eaten what your body said it wanted not the latest book or the person opposite the table said you ought to- and your mind will have had the peace of not concentrating on five things badly all at once.
Holidays are all of the words beginning with r above but I also find them as unsettling as settling- and think that perhaps they unsettle because they are a voyage and you just reach the shore when you have to get back on the boat and come home. I love coming home, I love home but there are things I've realised I don't like on holiday.
Why am I doing so many things I don't want to because I feel I should yet feeling drowned up to the back of my throat by things I want to do but cannot find time to? Why do I still at this age care so much what other people think when I don't even agree with what they think? Why can't I write as honestly as I used to? Why am I likable but not lovable? Why don't I want to settle? This is not meant ungratefully, they are questions not complaints, questions to myself written down here for who knows what reason but because I love to write. I am like George Emerson in A Room with A View, looking for the answer to the never ending why.