As you may have noticed I am fond of the editorial format. The alternative is too bleak to take in really, it would mean that I am not; a) powerful b) important. As I sit in my executive suite thinking of how I will turn this magazine into the success it once was, I have to accept that somehow, somewhere, things have gone awry. An easier pill to swallow with the following (How I Dearly Wish I Was Not Here.)

In truth my executive Editorial suite is my bedroom. In my parents house.
My online magazine is a free wordpress.
It is a week until my twenty fifth birthday and I’m beginning to sniff that things haven’t gone as planned.

I am back in Scotland, deep in the Borders, where I will be staying for the foreseeable future. I am working with my Dad as an apprentice carpenter come caretaker in order to pay off debts accumulated during travel. My nights will be spent shamelessly masturbating. I haven’t given up hope of being a footballer but I think it may be in some crazy league somewhere, rather than the premiership.
My thirteen month trip feels like a dream with foggy incidents coming back to me.
The yearning for home I felt at toward the end of the trip is certainly less profound.
It was always going to come, one of the sad truths of travel for those of us lucky enough to have a home to return to, that we will return home.
Things are largely going to plan, I have enthusiastically began helping my Dad with his business. I redecorated my room ((gone are the pages cut lovingly from Basketball magazines) the cheerleaders are in a shoebox in case the internet fails)). I have spanish lessons on the horizon and will begin e-practicing shortly. I have played football regularly and will  start weights training again soon.  This evening I started writing my blog again. I’m sitting opposite a window complete with the rolling hills I’d missed, typing this on a big desk almost as romantically as I’d envisioned. I’ve donated lots of clothes, rugs, tents, pots, pans, camping stoves etc. to the refugee crisis and attended a candlelit vigil. I’m going to volunteer somewhere on Wednesday mornings. I’m getting to see Vicki and when we see each other we are doing fun and interesting things and we’re happily in love. ❤
But I still have the awful feeling that things ain’t right.
The scent of “fuck”. And not in the good way.
It could just be my poor brain, entrenched in the western idea that my lack of career is failure, that my purposeless life is not worth living.
(Note to self: Attach meaning to existence.)
I am also getting a slight, reassuring whiff from the east -that the next year or so may be exceptionally fruitful. My being here, MY PARENTS HOUSE, is not a regression but a retreat. (ED- In war retreat is regression.)  My being here will allow me to fulfill many other ‘dreams’. My being here will allow me to live holistically and creatively, something I had dreamed of whilst travelling. That said, I’d probably rather do so next to white sandy beaches. Where I can feel my fucking hands. And it isn’t dark by 4:00. And Morrisey doesn’t seem so strangely uplifting.

This retreat, if productive, may last some time. I am however hatching plans for the alternative. I will begin to look into further study, (preferably near white sandy beaches), I will put away money as I repay debts. I’ll keep an eye on the tefl job market. I’ll come to a decision and then I’ll have a future and I’ll be great and everything will be fine.
That decision will be weighed and evaluated so that the readers of this important publication will be unaffected and quite possibly unmoved either way.
Keep an eye peeled and I may even back up the ridiculous claims. Keep an eye peeled to watch me fail. In the mean time I’ll press on with the positive change, learning new skills and developing as a person.

We will all die.
I’m almost 25.

Mr Hummels

P.S A room with a view.