The point of a holiday, many people will tell you, is to go, have fun, and relax. You take the world off of your shoulders and flip the bird at Atlas even though you got off easily and he’s still holding up the sky.
Most people would spend time going somewhere, travelling for sun and sea, or for culture and history, like me.
Then there’s the other side of me that just wants to go and camp in a field, sprain his ankle, run after people in costumes and beat them with foam weaponry. It’s a bloody good holiday even though it takes another day just to sit and relax just to recover from the “relaxing holiday” that you so desperately love and crave before heading back to your mundane little world.
If you’re at all like me, you’d spend your holiday doing what you love with people whom you love. The previous weekend, despite its various flaws and holes in the roads, was utterly amazing and I am itching to return to one of my favourite hobbies.
It’s just a shame that I can’t get enough of it, and even more depressing is the level in which one might miss the activities of the holiday afterward. It’s safe to assume that when you return from a holiday, you feel somewhat stressed from the travelling anyway, but when you get home it’s as if nothing had happened; you feel the urge to reconnect with what you’ve been doing and with the people whom you’ve been doing that with for that existentialist proof that that grandiloquent series of events had actually happened and that you didn’t just walk into your hallway from doing something completely different with the only evidence stating otherwise is the packed bag and sheathed sword in your hands.