... but in the end, does it really matter anyway?

I woke up knowing i wouldn't feel the warmth of my own bed again for some time. It could be days, it could be months. Though most would argue it is a problem they would love to have; that's the fundemental problem with traveling. Some say familiarity breeds contempt but what comes with a lack there of?

In the last 5 years I have lived in 9 cities in 4 countries and have become the proverbial rolling stone, failing to gather moss as I roll on down the path of a wanderer. Like some caricature of a bitter and cynical old ronin, with neither ties nor roots to people nor place, i have found myself the objective, subjective and introspective centre of my own existence.

After so long being immersed in the viciously transient nature of life i have retained only the most superficial of people skills, bordering almost entirely on those related to manipulation. The path i pursue is not consciously indifferent, i just seem to have become void of interest in those around me.

But is all hope lost? Is there some life preserver capable of keeping one such as me afloat in the emptiness of self-imposed solitude? And is there rope strong enough to pull me back to the world where is apathy is a sickness and not a quality held in such high regard?

In short the answer is yes... And i say this not because I have found it but because i know it must exist. It simply must... but in the end, does it really matter anyway?