Have you ever had a restlessness about a place?
Like you travel to one location and within 24 hours, you want to go somewhere else. Then that same feeling comes back once you reach the next destination like some vicious cycle you have no control over.
Or you plan on doing something and you get really excited, but then, once you actually have the time to complete the task, whether it’s required or not, you don’t feel the excitement anymore. You just don’t want to. You can’t bring yourself to want it.
This wanderlust, this euphoria of traveling has plagued me for years. This need for preparation but lack of motivation for tasks has been the bane of my very existence.
The need to travel has always taken over my life.
I want to follow it, but I won’t get very far.
Just my luck to have the life that doesn’t allow what I crave most…
Oh, but do I want to…
To follow those veins of ink that follow through the paper; that wind and weave in all directions, connecting and splitting like rivers of dirt and asphalt; their names calling out to me like new friends and memories that had almost been forgotten…
To put a pin on every stop I make as if there was some kind of treasure I had once buried, the pin my “X”.
My homes away from home.
My retreats that no other being would know of…
I crave it in the simplest form one can.
To travel would be complete and utter freedom from every form of imprisonment I have ever been under.
It would be a fresh start from every little bad experience I’ve encountered.
I want it.
I want to go.
I want to leave one day and just not come back.
I want to leave it all behind and jump at the chance to go somewhere I’ve never been.
To do something I’ve never done.
To live how I want to.
From a suitcase, in a new city, every week.
Just me, a suitcase, and a ticket to my next location.
My next Paradise.
My next Adventure…
What a selfish thought.