Romantically Wandering Wieder

The decision to start, wieder, blogging again wasn't at all instantaneous. It wasn't the type of decision made with the finality of turning the cold water off whilst in the shower. It was, rather, a decision only arrived at after much deliberation, coincidentally much of this deliberation was done with the thought provoking patter of water droplets in the shower, all the while wishing that it could be glorified as a decision of finality, alas realising that that was hardly real and then re-affirming that it really all had to be done, whilst overhearing mundane friendly chit-chat from down the hallway, sickening in its politeness, which inspired reason to write. An attempt to avoid that disgusting formality or maybe just seizing an opportunity to portray a scene.

Why had a blog suddenly become of such relevance, wieder, to him again? He hated the fact that he actually found pleasure in the process of blogging. It didn't at all fit in with his romanticised view of how cosas should be carried out in life, yet it was so pertinent. Perhaps it had all merely started as a brief attempt at connecting friends whilst travelling. Definitely it had transformed into something more than that. A way of life, a necessity, an addiction, a phenomenon that consumed the every-day journal/diary process and fed hungrily from the likes of Kerouac and Cortázar, that made sense of the surrounding craziness, that glorified the surrounding mundaneness, and suddenly you'd find yourself actually having to stop yourself from asking the Zebhausers to use the internet and fervently posting just another quick blog. So, why then did a return to familiar territory and familiar faces encompass a halt to the whole damn thing? Especially when he'd told Ozzie that he was gonna fuckin' keep bloggin' even when he got home and why should that change anything, hombre? Maybe it was the fact that he'd unequivocally left that familiarity again, a notion that had settled and then bubbled within him before settling again many times. If that was so, it would be sad.

It was zwar etwas anderes. Something different aside from trends and self-consciousness in the public eye. It was the romantic wanderer within him. The romantic wanderer that would search for free-volunteer work in Brazil and Sri Lanka. 'Free Volunteer' work, now wasn't that something. He couldn't even muster a chuckle at the absurdity of the term's existence. He thought that he, she or it's - the romantic wanderer that is - existence had been dispelled with the final jump of Hopscotch through La Rayuela. He'd dispelled the romantic wanderer when he'd decided, and even stated, that he was going to bleibe in Australia, for at least a few years to come, hadn't he? How fucking typical that after barely 2 weeks of down-time, when the mind is allowed to wander, he was already beginning to lose previously vested faith and even considering travelling, wieder, with a romantic wanderer again.