Feeling sort-of like a Vagabond

Traveling for work unleashes and evokes so many different emotions that makes me filled with surprises. The deeper struggle is trying to figure what it is. Sad, pain, relief, anger, depair, helplessness, freedom, detached, urge to seek validation, none of the above, all of the above, part of the above, 10% of this and 30% of that, no!. Return to the hotel room - all cookie cutter rooms - maroon checkered carpet as opposed to the grey ones back in the apartment, dimly lit walls, and the TV that always starts off with the hotel info channel - the same girl's voice with the same lousy elevator type music playing in the background. What does a life of a vagabond bring in? It reinforces that I belong to no where and no one. While the door to my mind keeps flashing the red "Danger - Do not enter" sign with the face of a skeleton above it, like a drug addict who cannot control his indulgence enter into my dungeon - those narrow dark caves of my mind's Greek monastery. My feelings and emotions are fuzzy and can't be categorized in the Aristotleon sense. Walls between feelings are blurry and I am in multiple places. They are cryptic and confused. So I tend to be silent, yet can't resist my constant urge of ordering these feelings into discrete words - in language. So in a Wittgensteinian way, I choose to be silent, which does not mean I have nothing going on inside. Language cannot cope up with my thoughts and feelings. I scanned through the English Thesaurus and did not find the right word to describe myself. Vagabond is just a cheap compromise. Again it is a category and its properties are not totally and completely where I am.