Last week, I found myself in bed, curled into a ball. As I lay there, a brief but paralyzing fear crept up on me. I felt so scared to live, to get out of the house. Dodging deadlines and abusing writing as means to earn can often blur the line between what you honestly want to say and what you ought to say because someone is paying you. It can be quite suffocating to subject your soul to such a lashing–but I reckon, these too are part of the growing pains.
It’s funny how, year’s ago, all I really wanted to do was travel ceaselessly through any and all modes of transportation. Today, I look at the world, breathe in its many wonders and yearn, more and more, to know myself more.
What is it that you really like? Where would you rather be? What would you be doing if nothing stood in your way? And if things do stand in your way, would you do it anyway?
Everyone talks about quitting their jobs and traveling these days. Their blog-worthy lives on screen are wonderful to look at and reading their adventures really tickles my perpetually present itch to travel. But lately, I’ve noticed that I’m not as excited as I used to be–maybe because places and experiences have become so commodified. There’s little magic in online travel writing and I suppose I understand why. The folks that do it are creating a guidebook for all of us. They’re also helping us get out into the world immediately–instead of dreaming and postponing.
Maybe I just miss the mystery? I miss being lost and not posting a photo of myself on any social media networking site that pinpoints me and traps me in just one location.
When my alter ego was drawn on me two years ago, I took a chance on some friends and disappeared in to the mountains for ten days. Now, whenever I feel most vulnerable, most unsure of who I am and what it is I’m doing with my life, I recall that time. I dig up this photo I took the night my friend took a felt marker to my back. I couldn’t see it after he had drawn it and when the time came to shower, I was sad to see it go. But I let it go and washed it away that same night because I was sure of the magic anyway. It happened, I was there–more importantly, I was still myself.
The mountains you’ve seen once are never the same mountains. Places change just as people do–but once, every now and then, you happen upon a place and there’s magic–there’s an honest-to-goodness sense that you are where you have to be. Hopefully, when that happens, you’re also the ‘you’ that you’re meant to be.
I’m still waiting on that to happen again but until it does, I’ll just keep moving.