We’ve stopped moving for now, though we always talk of moving again. Sometimes it sounds like fun. Sometimes it sounds like death. I don’t mean it sounds like death after you die, when you become quiet and gone and indifferent; but like death just before you die, when everything you want to hold onto will be taken away and there is nothing at all you can do about it.

They say that travel makes you smarter, fitter, happier. I say travel can also depress. I know when it becomes the bad thing, because I get a feeling. It’s not a particularly normal feeling, but it is what it is. It’s when I can’t feel anything solid holding up the soles of my boots. It’s what walking would be like if there were an afterlife. I’m not feeling it now. As I’ve said, we’ve stopped moving. That always helps. I look down and the ground is real and stable and comforting. We’ve even got a new home now. It’s not permanent, I know. But it’s a little more permanent than a hotel room, though equally spare on the furnishing side of things. I’ve so few possessions these days, I don’t even need shelving. People spend a lifetime trying to declutter their lives, especially now when it’s quite a trend, but for us, we just lost the clutter along the way. Leaving books behind in hotel rooms, forgetting clothing on airplanes, or charitably packing collectables in boxes and dropping them off where needed. And, there’s family. My mum took the washer-dryer for the guest room, formerly my bedroom; my brother the expensive brown leather couch for the basement entertainment room, which I haven’t seen yet. I don’t own any real books anymore. They’re too heavy to carry on airplanes, so I have an invisible bookshelf inside my phone. My photographs are there, too, no albums to sit on a couch with and flip through with a friend. I used to love writing in hardback journals with fountain pens, but I write in digital journals now, the fountain pens slipped away in hard to reach places in taxis and airplanes and the journals, recycled by now into toilet paper or whatever happens to sheets of paper torn into tiny bits and thrown out in a series of bags so as not to be put back together.

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