Well, here we are after three hours in mid air on an obscenely coloured window seat, and twenty five days of excruciatingly uncomfortable conversations. Then today, reality struck, and with it came the realisation that what used to be fixed by these ten nail-bitten fingers is now subject to a phenomenon commonly known as writers' block, frequently attributed to boredom and futility. Yet, despite this verbal constipation, there is still that familiar urge to neatly vomit words from heart to pen to paper. So that's what this is. This is not some lame attempt to get over being unable to discharge (no pun intended). It is simply a matter of doing something because you have to, not because you want to. Again. Catharsis.
Then again, maybe this is only understandable. Leaving a big chunk of your heart on a totally different country should not be taken lightly. Especially if this is compounded with daily local mishaps that give stupidity a whole new meaning. But maybe that's not it at all. Maybe it has something to do with the inability to feel that adrenaline rush, that crave for life that makes you want to wake up in the morning without wanting to smash the multi-purpose alarm clock against the back of your bedroom door. Maybe, it's about that all too familiar feeling of being a social outcast in a place where you never really belonged, despite failed miserable attempts at proving yourself and others around you otherwise.
It's about not finding the right words to empathise with what you've been meaning to say, thus bringing you to a very dry, very tepid conclusion: the bowels inhabiting this brain are frozen, constipated, blocked. Which means that it's going to take one hell of a laxative to flush it all away.