Counting Down

I find myself walking the streets of Barcelona, and counting down the days.

Three more nights in this hostel, you will be fine.

Six more days till you have Charlie, you will be fine.

Twenty-one more days till your under his wing, you will be fine.

For someone who once thrived on this, the change is drastic and confusing.

My clenched stomach, specifically at night,

makes me want to stay indoors rather then aimlessly wander.

My intolerance of hostels and the people,

makes me spend money on comfort and solitude rather then social bedlam.

I feel privileged and thankful for being here;

but excited already for it to come to an end.

Has my passion for travelling faded away?

Have I lost the courage that I once had and should now seek solace from staying put?

Maybe it's none of the above and I am merely caught in a moment.

All I do know now,

is I find myself saying at least once I day.

I want to go home.

I am ready to go home.