I wasn't going to post while I was away, but I have thoughts and feelings dancing madly through my head and needing to be down. We walk all day and my mind goes just as fast. I should have called this 'from bed', not 'from the road'. I'm writing from bed in a small and dark hotel room, not wanting to turn the light on for my book. My friends are not morning people like me. They sleep late and suggest we meet for coffee at ten. Which is fine actually, because Tokyo is not a morning city. Most definitely not. But I do like the mornings. Like to have something done with my day before eight. The thing is, I have nothing to get done. I tell myself I'm on holiday and need to be better at taking it easy and not rushing. It's OK if I don't see and do all the things, as long as I have a nice time. I don't even like all the things. I like nice times. I like coffee at ten and slow walks to the train and getting the wrong line and not minding. I like that we're finding small beautiful corners of this town, and not just the big ones.
I've spent the last hour reading some beautiful posts from my phone (one / two / three). Something about being away, and reading these amazing words and ideas makes me feel so inspired. I'm inspired to be more honest and open, to say more and not be afraid to say more. To stop closing myself off to the small, neat and palatable parts I usually share here. To acknowledge how terrified I am most days, about where I am going and just where I am now. To write down how much I doubt myself, question all my decisions and constantly think the worst. I worry minute to minute that I'm not good enough, not strong enough, not beautiful enough. To admit that eighteen months later I still have moments of hurt and heartache so bad I feel my chest fall through the earth and I have to breathe with my whole body just to steady myself. I feel anger and disappointment in waves that sometimes drown me - drown out all my thoughts and words and it takes a few minutes to get them back.
I think I must be too soft, too romantic and sentimental. I must be in my head too much.
I love to travel, I always have. But lately I feel distance so closely. I miss my house and message my sister and mother obsessively - did they get my picture, how are they, what's news? I live two states away and don't see them for months on end but being here feels more lonely. They feel far from me and I miss them.
Walking through these busy streets and narrow laneways I wonder if everyone else knows themselves better than me. They seem to have such purpose and direction, but maybe it's just the pace. Are they as sure of who they are and where they're going as it looks? My friend Luke lives here and seems to like the quiet that being in another world brings. We walked along the canals the other night at dusk, and I could smell the persimmons and mint in the gardens and there was occasional soft rain. He isn't one for small talk, likes living here because all he has to do is work and paint. And it was nice to walk in the quiet, but I kept wondering as we walked if other people feel bruised by it all. The distance and the hurt and the not knowing, if they feel the light changing and the soft rain. If they feel as lost in it all as I seem to.