I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
I am in an airport somewhere in the world. I've left.
Last month I had begun a campaign of disinformation to conceal my destination. My ex-colleagues, friends and acquaintances think I am in Los Angeles, London, New York, Hong Kong, Vancouver, Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Texas or South Africa. I may or may not be in any of those places. Outside my immediate family, few people know where I am.
When asked why I was so withholding of this particular information, I was at a loss to answer. I don't know the reason for my reluctance at disclosing where I'm going or what I will be doing. Some part of me is doing this out of superstition – I don't want to jinx anything. Another part is just tired, and wants to disappear.
I don't know how long I will be gone for. The last time I left I was convinced I wouldn't be back for a while, but I did come back, unexpectedly, and it had affected me greatly. I don't want to commit to anything – a duration, a destination, a return – nothing must hold me accountable for promises I cannot keep.
I am a drama queen, I know.
Am I scared? Most definitely.
Am I exhilarated? Yes and no.
Do I doubt my decision? Sometimes I do, but most of the time I think this is the right thing to do and the right time to do it.
If there is one good thing (and there are many) about being home for a while, it is this: I've realized that home will always be home, and even if I fail a million times over there will always be a place for me here. I don't worry too much now. I know I can always come back.
So here I am, on a very solitary journey that will probably challenge me mind and body. Hopefully I'll learn something about the world and myself in the process.
