The Camino de Santiago

The actual How To of explaining the Camino is something that quite literally gives me pause. My brain quakes, my hands shudder, and I lose all sense of the English language. It is a monstrous undertaking. It is hardly something that can be condensed, though I will do my best. There are any number of novels written on just such a subject, and they likely do it more justice than I. So I shall begin the same way I began two years ago:

The manner in which I left my mother and father was one of my major fears regarding my current journey; the other is the very public promise of writing that I made myself. It’s been my tormenter for as long as I can remember. Whether I name this beast Scriptophobia or Graphophobia or keep it unnamed, my subconscious breathes life into it with each passing day I choose not to enrich myself by writing. Strengthening its underbelly with scales forged from my self-doubt; growing stronger by effortlessly snapping my bones in its powerful jaws to gnaw and suck on the marrow of my self-diagnosed Imposter Syndrome. 

At the beginning of he and I, I was hesitant. A new relationship was not something I wanted or needed. I had been planning world explorations and did not want these plans to be compromised by the thoughts and feelings of someone who came after they were laid. Who would he turn out to be, this man who had so captured my thoughts?

It's raining in Melbourne; my phone informs me that it'll be raining all day. A sudden vibration, word from my mother, informs me that it's raining in Miami. On my side of the globe, it's currently 8:14 AM, Monday, August 1st, and I meant to organize these particular thoughts into prose during my final hours in Miami -- hours that passed into memory and regret, for the best-laid plans of mice and men oft go awry.