I’m getting that air of desperation. You know the one? The one that whistles and whips around you, like a tornado, sucking all your energy from you and ripping it to shreds in its nastly little whirlpool of exhaustion. I’m desperate for a holiday.
It’s time for me to take a break from Real Work before it either swallows me whole, I murder one of my colleagues or I throw myself out of my fifth storey window in the Ivory Tower, to a gruesome death below. It’d be a bit unfortunate to do that really as, depending on my timing (say I did it at lunchtime), I may disturb a merry little band of students enjoying the spring sunshine on the lawn in the quad outside. Seems a little unfair to disrupt them thus. Honestly, smushed-up-person doesn’t do anything to brighten one’s day.
Therefore: holiday needed. It just seems to be an administrative nightmare to organise. Which makes little to no sense. But then, not much in my life (I am finally beginning to realise, and try to make friends with), does. Let’s just say it’s not as simple as taking some days off and disappearing into the wild blue yonder, as much as I wish it were.
Wild blue yonder… bliss. The idea is to go just there. There, on the other side of the mountains where the city lights don’t dull the stars and the air is not cluttered with city breath. There, where cars are a rarity. There, where we can breathe. And write.
All that’s needed is to find the right days to take off, that coincide with everybody. Then to find a place. Then to go.
Sounds so simple, doesn’t it?