Recirculating blood in the aisle, on the descent into New York

A word or two of context to this expedition:

I was until recently engaged to be married - a destination of sorts and also the start of what I think felt too daunting a journey. I travelled asleep for almost six years and recently woke up not recognising where I was. The house I own is not a home any more and for a month I have been making little journeys between friends, some of the hardest and sweetest trips of my life.

I can't and wouldn't want to be able to describe my wanderings to this point. I would, though, like to get those who read these entries to a position from which they can see me clearly at this initial point of my journey, and for this I'll have to get them - you - to travel from a position of ignorance to...somewhere else.

It's important that you know what I'm running away from, a broken heart, and what I'm aiming for: only what the Christians get to call 'communion' and what atheists have to name for themselves - further definitions to come from the people I talk to in America.

Whatever I'm looking for I think it is vital to me and hitherto missing and it begins to confirm a suspicion I have that all writing is travel writing - a phrase which, for now at least or until I come down on exactly what it means, you can consider a second tagline to this blog.

This post is a one-off: the entries from this point will have adventure at their heart. I am going on a course of adventure therapy and will try to keep constitutional updates to a minimum. If, though, some entries are shot through with either lunatic empathy or a selfish malaise it's a broken heart leaking through the cracks and to be ignored. You are forewarned.