I get into moods sometimes, particularly when it's a warm spring day and the old maple trees in my neighborhood are looking especially pretty, when the whole New Zealand immigration idea seems bizarre, and I begin to wonder why I want to go.
I had similar thoughts when I was planning to move to England, but this is a bit different. Then, I was still freshly annoyed by the stress of finishing college, and I was desperate to go out and discover Real Life, as they call it. Now I'm working and living on my own. I'm independent, and a little more settled. Things are rather nice where I am. At home I have my books and music and films, friends and family, parks and coffeeshops; it's comfortable and often very pleasant. Things at work are all right too, even if I do complain about boredom. I'm safe, and generally content. It comes down to the question of why I should give all this up.
The answer, which darts through me from time to time like adrenaline, is that deep down in my plain easygoing well-behaved self, I want to be some kind of storyteller - a writer, or maybe a musician. I don't want to be famous for it, I don't even need to get paid for it, I just want to have that inspiration. And very few stories or songs - at least, very few of the ones that interest me - are born out of being safe and comfortable. I need to experience more of life before I can say anything about it worth listening to. I need to be frightened, or sad, or ecstatic every so often. And I need to be active, I think that's the important thing, I need to do something. Reading books, watching films, listening to music - all of that is great, I love it. But if I don't experience things for myself, it's only someone else's story, someone else's life.
That's what I'm hoping New Zealand will do for me. Not to say that I'm going to move there and live under a bridge, but I want my lifestyle to startle me awake.