Why is it that returning home is such a tiring thing? Is it just the unpacking, the putting of everything away, or is it something more? Is about a transition from one space, or place to another and all that that involves. The escaping home is never what I hope it will be. There is always this coming back to what I left behind, the unfinished, messy stuff that is mostly unresolvable. Is that the tiredness? Or is it just journeying – passing from one grimy service station to another, trying to ground myself and failing? I am blessed, fortunate, one of the lucky ones, I know this and still I grumble. It shames me.
