I think it's safe to say that I have post-holiday blues. Or post-travel depression if we're going to be precise. You see, the trouble with holidays is that they do come to an end. One minute you're lying on the beach, the sun on your skin, thinking about which cocktail you'll order in the evening; the next you're back home facing a mountain of dirty washing, 555 urgent, unanswered emails and nothing to look forward to. It's back to the same old chores and challenges. And as much as I'm trying to make the most of my time (in terms of being productive and enjoying it), I am, quite literally, consumed with thoughts of how to get away again and how quickly. Sounds awful doesn't it? But there's just no way out of it.
Ever since my break up in March, I've been circulating around the same few places. Caffe Nero where we'd have coffee (I a hot chocolate, he a latte) on our way home from work, Moons where we'd go out for drinks with colleagues and the 142 that goes into Edgware. The same places, smells, sounds and even people that bring a hundred memories rushing back with every passing moment. So I guess that's what Italy was for me; a much needed break away from a city we once shared and a chance to ponder in a space not linked to my past. And now that I've had a taste of that freedom, I feel captive; caught in a never ending loop of wanting desperately to look forward and feel better, but not quite cutting it because of my surroundings and feelings.
I suppose you could think of it as throwing a stone into serene waters, one that doesn't disappear without causing ripples at the surface. So pain is the same - as hard as you try to bite the bullet it's a long time before the ripples of distress go away. Agreed, with time they become less pronounced, less obvious until one day they disappear altogether. But who's to say how long it will take?