Yesterday, I was sick. I threw up at 9AM. I aimed for the sink, but my natural instinct to vomit was far too overwhelming to contain, and thus, I missed my target. Chunks of sick hit the floor and the rubbish bin. I noticed several hours later that an army of ants were drowning in the pool of my vomit – their attempts to carry the lumps of regurgitated food back to their nest were in vain. Eventually, I cleaned the mess up, but in my sickly state, it felt like a hugely laborious task.
I spent the entire day drifting in and out of sleep. It was hot – with lows of 27°c and highs of 38°c – and, whilst my fan was doing an okay job of keeping me cool, I was perspiring heavily; in part due to a slight fever, but mostly due to the heat of Thailand. Waves of nausea would come and go, and I took multiple cold showers to refresh me.
I have been travelling for just over six months. I quit my job in London and purchased a one-way ticket to Bangkok. In that time, I’ve met so many new faces and been offered a small glimpse into their lives: we shared stories, sunsets, memories, and moments together.
The common theme I’ve noticed amongst travellers is that the majority use travel as a way to “find oneself”. Yet I fail to understand this concept; it’s not that I never feel lost or that I have an unwaveringly strong sense of self. It’s clear to me that I travel for the opposite reason – I’m escaping the constructs of what I consider myself to be. Yes, I’m running away from myself.