I wish travel didn’t still feel so difficult. I know it will be fine and that it might even be good, a pleasure, or even, heaven forbid, enjoyable...but it continues to be a huge effort and the sheer absurdity of the effort can make it very easily not worth the undertaking. A ridiculous madness.
It is this same, or at least, a very similar, problem of motivation that besets me when I am on my own but, because it becomes tied I up with the plans of others who are entirely unaware of the emotional chaos behind the scenes, it becomes a much less ‘safe’ experience and much more effortfull. I know I am okay and put on a good show and can get stuck in once I’m underway but the anticipation becomes crippling and no amount of logical rationalising or compassionate understanding seems to make a jot of difference and I can find myself bloody tedious.

All that said, by the time I took this, I had walked the richly diverse cosmopolitan streets and absorbed a cultural melting pot that is almost inconceivably different from the world I had left when I walked out of work just 3 hours beforehand.