Yesterday i was ready to move here for the winter. Today i wake feeling trapped and ready to come home.
Its unfair to say i woke feeling trapped. I woke thinking ive been still for long enough i want to go out for the day. Maybe ill go to Sandoy, just for a wander, just for the day. And then i realise that i needed to be up and out by seven am to catch the ferry to go anywhere, that i am stuck here until this afternoon. Island life suits me well whhen im wanting to be still.
I sat in the pub last night, Yddgrasil playing, slighly hazy perhaps from the beer, romantiscing about being here in the winter, weaving and writing, watching northern lights. Weaving the colours of the fog and the skies. Writing the words of the desert. Swimming the harbour.
Today, i know that my eternal dissatisfaction with whatever i have, means i might find myself frozen, unable to create, unable to write. Stuck. Fogbound. Ferrybound. Im ready to leave here today but have one more night, will go tomorrow on the twelve thirty ferry. I have twenty eight hours left and it feels twenty four too many.
My choices here are limited to a short easy walk, a long challenging walk, swim, sit in the cafe. I am surprised how fickle i am, that i can change so rapidly from staying to leaving. I want the next stage, i want the flight home. I want to stop searching. I wonder if i might make my garden house my studio and my house, hostel like accomodation. In a sense it has been fun, living here with four other travellers. No, of course im not serious. Seeing how others leave the kitchen annoys me and its not even my house. But people on the move are interesting.
I met german Julia from Tvoroyri, last night in the pub. She, waiting for the ferry back to Torshavn and then an overnight ferry journey home. It was good to see her and talk. One band had finished playing, the second not yet started. I was drinking Gull, she hot chocolate. Sometimes, oft times, i think others much more together than i in every respect and for a moment wish id not been drinking. She complememted me on my writing, nit the first person and i wonder what i will do with it. Perhaps that is my next journey, down to London to meet with Jonathon Lorie, a travel writer i respect who offers advice.
Thinking is exhausting. I can only live in the moment. Yesterday morning i was after the tiny little unused house, to return here for august. Last evening i was changing my flight and returning for the winter. This morning i am going home.