Sweet Eiran, baile mo croi.
All week I've been wanting to write another letter to you. Every few months I get this urge to write letters to you about everything, letters that tell you things I should never want to say. It's as if you're still my confessional, and although I don't tell other people these things, I would still like to tell you. It is ironic, then, that I lied to you about so many unnecessary things for the sake of saving my pride. And really, I am a very proud person. Maybe things would have been different for us if I weren't, who knows.
My heart aches for the Emerald Isle, every inch of my body yearning to be finally on that plane and on my way to the country I love more than any in the world. For its flaws, its history, that impossible language, the wonderful people, all those rolling green hills and how funny it is that they call them mountains. A place where the faeries are older than time, more a part of the land and the lore than any other in the world. Three more days, my heart tells me. Seventy-two hours, and my feet will again be on Irish soil. And I'll be ready, camera in hand, to bring pieces of it back with me. Will my heart always long for Ireland when I leave?