Melancholic thoughts while living the dream

I’m living exactly the life I wished for before that hell of a flight to get to Thailand. Some of the years before this trip were just a preparation. A training. All leading up to trying to live up to what I thought I could do to live a simpler and happier life.

I trained myself to enjoy the little things more, to use more time for myself, to concentrate on my own well-being without the need of other people‘s recognition for it, to sleep less and live more, to buy only the very essentials after giving myself some days to think about if I REALLY need them, etc.

Hell, I even trained myself to live off of only the things that could fit in my backpack (100 items LINK) and eat less!!!

And now I’ve been part of a great team of young meditation enthusiasts for 15+ days. The most friendly, supportive and energetic people I’ve met. Then I’ve traveled around Thailand living the low cost/maximum fun idea. After that I spent 30 days living with the hill’s tribes from Burma(Myanmar) in the North of Thailand, surrounded by the Burmese Army, teaching English in the NGO and at the Public School.

I flew in to Australia with just a hand full of money. I’m more than surviving on it. I’ve only spent $70 in the last week in Australia. This, after spending  $50 the first day on one phone card. I’m living in an old man’s rusty 4×4, eating at a Cristian charity(yeah, I know a lot of people are going to use this one against me soon…), buying the absolute minimum I need, taking my showers at the beach shower and a looooong etc you will only be able to understand if you’ve ever traveled this way..

I’m living it up the best I can. I’m happy as hell. I’m damn proud of myself.

And still I cried like a little girl watching Ice age today when I skyped with my parents, back home, in Spain.

The more I pursue my dreams the more I know they are bringing me further from my parents and my family. I miss my parents to bits. I miss my older brother, even though we normally want to punch each other in the face every now and then. I miss my little brother like hell, even though I’d punch him and run for my life once in a while. I miss my dogs, even though, nah, I just miss them so much…

The more flights, buses and vans I take to go further around the globe the more I’m feeling I’m leaving a good part of myself at home, with my family. Happiness, while traveling, is also a mixture of sadness and missing people back home, buy knowing that you’ll someday be back and will be able to hug them and won’t be scared any more to tell them how you feel about them, because whily you move around you start to understand more and more that everything is temporary, and so are people’s lives.

The further I go the more I miss my family and am scared to push my travels too far and miss the chance to share some moments with them.

Traveling, I guess, gives me this mindset. I’m happy for what I’m doing. I’m traveling. That’s what I’ve always wanted. But I know, more and more, that the moments I spend with my family in the future will be more meaningful and sacred than ever. Traveling isn’t about leaving things behind. It shouldn’t be, I think. It’s about finding that “something” that you are looking for so that you can go back, be at peace with your soul, and enjoy your family again..while time lets you.

Crying doesn’t seem the most manly thing to do for a guy living almost on the streets but…screw you… some girl said it was a plus!

This one, these melancholic tears on the Coolangatta park, go out to my mother, father, odler brother, little bro, Bolo, Rita…and hell, even Sandalia, my Nazi-killer cat.

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