The jet lag that trails me is so bad, that my desire to read has fled. From time to time, there rises within me a faint trace of enthusiasm for a specific South East Asian literature I had sought and wanted to claim as my own. Then after awhile this too vanishes.
There are seasons when there lies no shadow, no tell-tale sign that I travelled or raced the miles. At other times, such a foreboding ghost takes forever to leave. I have been lying awake at nights, falling asleep only at sunrise and waking again at noon. Of course, it is a marvellous thing that the freedom of time is my own. I have tried to fight this fitfulness of sleep but to no avail. My consciousness still sees itself in Ireland, at the moment, a good seven hours behind. And this after a week. Then there is the humidity…the sweat that starts pouring down my face, back and legs, once I step out into the street from the air-conditioning. Within a few seconds, I am drenched in perspiration.
Dublin has been pretty cold and I am very much used to the frost by now. Even our gales and the kinder blustery command a power to chill the bones. But we wrap up warm and life is good. Here, there is simply no escaping the dense humidity in spite of the cooler welcoming thunderstorms that draw reminders to a beloved childhood.
What is so incredible is that I adjust immediately with no fanfare whatsover whenever I’m in Tanzania or Australia. Then jet lag simply doesn’t exist.
I should be moving on from Malaysia by now but am giving myself a little bit longer as there are still a number of things for me to pursue.
Tonight, I’m going to start mapping out my story ideas and making a proper writing plan for myself no matter how I feel. Travel & writing together have never been easy for me, but it is a feat I am determined to conquer.