Lately, I’ve been thinking about consistency. The sameness, the familiarity, the predictability, of life.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m no fan of monotony, but there’s certainly an argument to be made about consistency. There’s a comfort about it. Waking up in the morning and having my coffee out of my favourite mug. Sitting on our balcony and watching the sun come up over our neighbour’s houses. Having a debate about treating myself to something decadent for brekkie but always falling back on boiled eggs or porridge. It might not be exciting, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth celebrating.
As a blogger I feel the pressure for my life to be a certain way. It’s almost like fitting into a box, if that box was a concept of perfection. Writing about travel, even though I don’t write about it all the time, I can see that around me everyone is playing at living the perfect life. Their travels are 100% good days, eye-opening experiences and life-changing locations. It seems there are no 4-hour delays for the bus, no stolen bags, no scams and rip offs, no days where you just want to pack it all in. I have to wonder: was I doing something wrong as a traveller? Sure, there were days where I felt like travel was all I would ever do, and then there were days where I cried and wanted to book the next plane home. Days I was so over it that I sat inside with the AC on and browsed on sub-par wi-fi and texted my parents a hundred times and wished I was home.
Now that I’m not travelling on a full-time basis anymore, I do miss the days when I’d wake up in the morning and have no idea where I’d end up by the time sunrise came along. But I’m also grateful that I get to wake up in the morning next to someone I love, and end the day in the same place, but happier for my little piece of consistency.
It’s certainly not perfect, but that’s not really what I’m looking for.