What's in the room?

I awoke from sleep at 9am sharp, my puritanical soul rebelling against the very concept of rest that my tired bones so desperately desired. Checked my phone and smothered myself with a pillow block out the light, and to an extra two hours sleep.

Some time last year, while living in the UK, I noted my dreams had devolved into nothing but the mundane, nothing but fantasies of grocery shopping and sipping coffee. Alarming. Had I become so content with my life that I had no other ambitions? Has the fire burned down to embers? Had I become lame? Had I made it?

After a stint working somewhere new, culturally isolated from any semblance of modern society, and then some time on the road, my newly itinerant lifestyle seems to be feeding into my dreams.

While by day I wander the streets aimlessly, bouncing from hotel to hostel like some bit character in an aborted attempt the great American novel, at night I'm home, visiting good friends in my sleep. I buy dogs and furniture and spend time with the family.
What then, does the amateur psychoanalyst make of this? My mind and body rested, my curiosity for travel confronted head on, it seems my soul craves familiarity, family, kinship.
My old friends spread out, the new abandoned in their weird Mediterranean island off Spain, an aimless stint alone in civilisation has awoken my love of all the things I love.

Travel is vital, a necessity, a hunger. But occasionally one's appetite isn't there. And that's quite okay.
Sometimes the sushi doesn't hit the spot, but it's the cheese on toast that does it.

I find myself making many phone calls on my trips through Andalucia, and I think… couldn't I be doing this anywhere?