Sometimes, you realize that in exactly two months you will pack up everything you have in your fourteenth century castle, board a plane to the United States, and go back to living a (mostly) normal life. Two months. Just two.
On the one hand, you feel like this is a long, long way away. You haven’t seen your family in what seems like years, you long for BBQ chicken quesadillas more than you probably should, and are really excited to get back to your school in Boston. It’s weird being homesick while traveling abroad – who are you to be upset when you’re going to ITALY this weekend? – yet it exists and you can’t exactly squash it.
Other hand: TWO MONTHS. You’ve been here for almost ONE. How does time even work!? You list off the places you’re traveling in your head and realize that you have a mere eight weekends to cram all your adventuring into. EIGHT. You’ve already been to three magical countries and you get to go to seven more. What is this life? What is this luck? The weeks FLY by and it seems that only seconds after you unload your backpack you’re repacking it. Days seem to last for ages but months keep getting ripped off the calendar. It’s this awful feeling of one foot in the present and one foot in the future with your head whipping back and forth from the past to where you’re going. Awful but livable, you suppose.
So sometimes you understand that two months is just two months, whatever what you decide to look at it. And, sometimes, all you can really do is live to tell the story.