I fear that I am cursed to perpetually wander.
There is, in my soul, a quiet voice that calls from the open road. No matter how often I suppress this voice, I can never shut it out altogether.
Travel: a temporary cure to a hereditary existence. I travel, for brief respite from my pain; but, like scratching an itch, the longing becomes stronger after the respite. There is nothing quite the same, as an open road ahead of the car; there is nothing better than trees rushing by the window; or waking up to a new city.
I am addicted to adventure.
Some of my best memories have been made on the road: like standing before St. Peter’s in Rome; hiking up to a bat cave in Mexico; walking through the streets of Bahrain. There’s absolutely no comparison, with the freedom that I felt during those moments. I love feeling the rumble of wheels beneath me–the smell of unknown cuisine sizzling in the open air; the sun rising over a new horizon, and a fresh breeze on my face.
The ordinary repels me like oil repels water. I am separate from the mundane; and that not by choice. This nostalgic craving is rooted in my existence. I cannot escape; because the longing is a part of my soul.