With myself, it was different again. In many ways I was the most unlikely of souls to undertake such a journey and I was plagued by doubt. They would seep out of the globe at night and surround me, encase me and shake me until I flew about like snow.
What was I doing? I asked myself this more times than I care to remember. This was crazy. Who took a year off to go on a festival bender? To write a book? Well, I knew the answer. It was the type of person who liked to holiday in remote sweaty regions with poor toilet facilities; who enjoyed eating mysterious and membraney-stuffed food smacking their lips while they did so; the type of person who poked dangerous animals with short sticks just for the joy of reaction - that's who.
And that wasn’t me.
I didn't need titillation.
Sometimes my life felt like a litany of cool and sexy things I'd never tried. Hey Izz, want to try rock climbing? - don't like heights. Hey Izz, what to go surfing? - can't tread water. Hey Izz, what about sky diving? - nope. Tandem sky diving? - and get strapped to another dude? Pleeease.
And so it goes.
And you know what? I'd made my peace with being unadventurous. I was good with it. You see, I liked my comfort zone. Let me rephrase, I loved my comfort zone. I mean who didn't like to be comfortable, really? Its very definition was physical ease and relaxation.
And let us not forget, also, that I was an apple not far fallen, a trusting and loving consumer of mass-production, of convenience, with no real skills, who'd long since known that should the apocalypse come, should solar flares strike and humanity go tumbling back into the Dark Ages, I would be among the first to die, from starvation, a dented tin of peaches in one hand, and the rock in which I tried to open it the other.
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