First of all, I wish to reassure everyone that despite my absence on this blog, I have been maintaining my reputation as being a complete glutton here overseas. Yet strangely, I have yet to actually go out and buy fish and chips. It feels as though I am occupying a contradiction.
It's been a long time, so it should hold that I have been doing many things in this time. But now that the end of term looms a mere two weeks away, I am paralyzed under the crippling knowledge that I could have done more, that I have yet to really take advantage of everything that has been laid before me. The afternoons where I have spent simply stuffed inside the house have been countless, I am ashamed to admit, and my room has gone into such a state of disarray. My entire body's been wracked with itches from an unknown source, whether detergent or allergies or some obscure British disease.
There are, however, moments that I hope will stay locked in my memories for years to come. Moments like watching the sun rise on the train to Truro, seeing the mist collected in the secret cracks and fissures of the ambling countryside, where the morning winds have yet to reach them; they sleep like cobwebs and spectres. Sitting in Tintagel, where the North coast greets from one side and the green horizon stretches endlessly in a thousand rural fairtales in the other, and I stand on ancient cliffs. Climbing, by myself, through the wet rocks to explore the cavemouths of Arthurian lore until the rest of the touring populace are specks on the beach; I am barefoot and alone, seeing things that no one else today will see, and putting off the anxiety of slipping, falling, spraining and breaking in the incessant lure of adventure.
Crawling as far as I can manage to the edge of a windy, grassy cliff to take the perfect photo of a shipwreck. Walking 8 miles in mud with completely inappropriate shoes to see the beaches. Falling asleep after the tiniest mouthful of alcohol, on two different occasions. Singing in a kareoke bar as the cheers of the other patrons washes away stage fright with adrenaline. Debates over the amount of oil needed in cooking pancakes for the day before Lent, and eating them with lemon and sugar. Using the word queue more often than the rest of my life combined. Sneaking croissants and a carton of orange juice into a nightclub. Getting hit on by three, THREE dudes - one determined and uncharismatic, one balding, and one the fattest man in the room - in a pub in Constantine as an Irish performer sings with an accent so thick I can barely discern the words, before I'm dragged into dancing and the rest of the pub follows. Confusing people with the word 'toque'. Visiting Loppi and dressing up in an awesome pirate jacket with tails. Being able to look out over the harbour and waterside every day as I leave the house, and no matter what time of day and what weather, it is always be breathtaking.
Too long, didn't read, but Cornwall has been good to me. And now that the impending truth of my departure is looming over the horizon, I am not sure what to think. Part of me wants to go home, to go explore the rest of the wide world and see more friends, and another wants to stay, to do more and to stay with the new friends I've made.
I feel like I have been neglectful of people back home, that's the truth. The time difference certainly makes that easier, but it's much easier for me to deal with absence, even a temporary one, by cutting communication. I did the same thing when my cats were given away I realize, and it only worked to a small extent. The downside is, once you think you're okay and coping, something tiny happens and you're brought to inconsolable tears twice in three days.
I'm really scared. Of staying, of travelling, of going home - but the world is a beautiful, terrifying, depressing, joyous place. I wonder if there's anything I can do but weather it.
(PS. - There's a huge photo backlog and I'm debating what to do with it. In all likelyhood I will probably upload a huge dump to a new photobucket account and make it public from there.)