Self-imposed Torture

I was a shy child who loved being at home. When my friends invited me over to play, I usually invented excuses. I lost many friends this way. The thing is – I didn’t like people very much. They either bored or scared me, and being at home was so enjoyable. Yet, I was thirsty for travel and longed to go away. So I did, again and again and again, on exchange, horse riding holidays, language trips, always harbouring a little resentment towards myself for abandoning my home, or for not returning to a place that I had already learned to love.

Not all that much has changed. I’m still averse to social interaction, I still love the place that is now my home, I still feel the need to go away. So I do, again and again and again, on walks, tropical holidays, road trips. Until I leave for good, again.

With the result that there exists a multitude of places that I would like to make my home.

The place of my first memories: A house somewhere in Swabia, with a garden full of plums and cherries.

My teenage room, a sanctuary.

A village in the Provence, where I thought I had a soul.

New York, a city that makes me feel alive.

Wellington, where I am happy.

The ever-present craving for more. Saying goodbye has become a ritual, but it is painful nonetheless. The more I see, the more I will have to miss. I’m spoilt for choice.

It’s self-imposed torture.