Why Travelling Ruins You.

I’ve been home for two months now.

Two months of being reunited with my loved ones… some of whom I haven’t seen for next to two years. Laughter, tears, endless reminiscing. Beginning to make the plans that were just daydreams before. “See you soon” really means soon. The thousands of miles dissolved into but a line in our story.

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Be The Light.

I found it difficult to know where to begin with this one. Impossible, even, as the days passed and each one was painted with another tragedy. Another reminder of the darkness absorbing our world.

Every morning I wake up and turn to my phone almost expecting to find further devastation. In the past few months alone, evil has spread its fingers and taken innocence in its grip incessantly. Its path has been relentless, the media barely unable to come up for air from the sheer weight of it all. And don’t even get me started on those stories that don’t quite make the cut. The trauma that takes a back seat from the lives deemed unworthy of the front page.

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More Than Enough.

I’ve been waiting to write this post for a long time. Waiting, wondering. Unsure of how to put this feeling, this bizarre and confusing feeling, into words.

I should start off by saying that coming home; well, it hasn’t been easy. It’s been up and down, hot and cold, exciting and terrifying. For the first time in my life, that space that I have continuously filled with education, work and travel has become gapingly empty. A void. And the path ahead is all of a sudden riddled with uncertainties.

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Love in All the Right Places.

As the plane dipped through the clouds and the miles and miles of British greenery all of a sudden spun out into the horizon, it finally hit me. That I was coming home. That, for now, my travels had been folded away neatly into my diary, pinned to the pages as a memory. A surreal picture of my past.

I didn’t know how I would feel. Would I be sad? Deflated? Numb? Would I cry? Would it even feel real at all?

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