I have done a significant amount of travelling.
Not the literal kind, though I have done that too. The metaphorical kind. The lyrical kind.
The love kind.
I am as familiar with the terrain as I have ever been. I have been all over Emotionally Unavailable Alley. All up and through It's Just not Meant to Be. I've dragged myself over the broken glass strewn across Brokenhearted Boulevard time and time again to get back to Safely Single.
I don't even need a map anymore.
I even liked It's too Hard to Let Go Even if it's Best so much that I went back...
I have an insane number of frequent flier miles. I know all the rules and the customs, even recognize some familiar faces. I know all about the taxiing, the gathering of power until takeoff. I know how to just chill in my seat until we've passed the turbulence, until we reach cruising altitude.
I know all about the inevitable crash landing. At this, I am a pro.
Under my bed is a box. Simple in it's design, it is wholly unremarkable. But the life it contains inside is remarkable. In it are the remnants of every trip I have ever taken, tokens and scraps of these miles I have travelled. The box is a stronghold of sorts, though it looks like no safe you have ever laid eyes on. It protects those memories that have shaped me. From the elements; from myself. It holds onto all of those things I can't bear to hold in my hands.
Because I still have to go pick up my load from baggage claim.
Sometimes I wonder, what if I had missed that flight? What if I had flown another airline? What if I hadn't been two hours early or ten minutes late?
That is the kind of thing you cannot store in any box.
No matter how many times you cash in your frequent flier miles for some indiscernible perk, the
trips are always there, a part of your travel history, a stamp in your passport if you have been taken that far.
Just because they are over doesn't mean they go away.
I travel, I fly, I guess, because it is in my nature. It might not always nurture but it is natural, I suppose. I've learned so much about the world, but it never quite seems to be enough to satisfy my need to explore the next uncharted terrain.
But really, I am tired. I miss home, wherever that is. I miss that sense of relief that comes from dropping my baggage at the door, wandering familiar earth unrestrained. I long for stairs that creak a recognizable symphony under my weight. And the particular hue that my own sheets turn under early morning sunlight. I miss space where I am free to exist as I am, not as I should or could be, if only...
In many ways, I will miss the routine, the familiarity of a journey that I have become so familiar with. But I have done so much travelling.
And where do you go when there is nowhere left but away?