Wanderer

Forever my feet will drive me to roam. To wander the world in search of experiences and adventures so rich that my stomach aches. Strange places do not feel foreign to me, they are like long lost friends, welcomed back into my embrace with new, fresh eyes. The sights, the sounds, and scents of a new city flood my senses, igniting the ancestral memories embossed upon my soul. The architectural faces of ancient stones wear a familiar smile, and on the wind the echoes of voices lifted in songs that once vibrated in my bones. I feel connected to every place I touch, the streets a memory washed and faded by the waves of the sea. There is a homesickness nestled deep in my core, for places I have yet to experience; a longing that reaches into my chest and breaks my heart.

More than a desire to travel, far greater than an addiction, it’s a compulsive need to be in the midst of the going. To stand still is to be a captive, locked into a cage of that which is stagnant. The going keeps us free, ever changing, constantly growing, as we connect to the fragments of our souls scattered into the winds of our ancestral connections. We do not belong to one place, one mind, or one life. The world calls out to the heart and soul, drawing us from the slumber of monotony. We are pulled into the mist of the mountains of Lauterbrunnen, called by the echoes of waves against the Cliffs of Aran, and beckoned by the vast expanse and power of the Iguazu Falls. Antiquity is steeped into the fibers of our marrow, a shared history that resonates within our bones.

Forever my vagabond feet will itch, causing me to seek out the next adventure. The call to return to a place these eyes have never seen, these fingers have not touched, but the soul recognizes in sleepy dreamlike memory, swirls in my ears and the seeds are planted. The places I want to touch are etched into the bucket list of my mind, waiting to be ticked off. Then the planning begins.

Every place I venture to, all of the adventures I’ve sought out and experienced, leaves a mark on my soul. In the midst of the going I am overwhelmed by the experience. The cacophony of sights, sounds, smells, and flavors burst throughout my body, drowning out much of reality. The things I have only longed for are tangible, but fleeting. Once the trip is over, and I’ve returned to the cage of reality, the memories become hazy. They fade into a sort of Deja vu; a blurry recollection floating on the effluvia of my consciousness. I know that it wasn’t all a dream, and yet there is a part of me which struggles to hold fast to the wistful visions that bend around the edges and cloud over with time.

Even as the vivid memories fade, becoming more of a lucid dream which slips through my fingers with waking, I find the pull towards the places I have yet to discover stronger than ever. Once the photo album is closed, the images settled and displayed, I start to feel that tug in my heart, beckoning me out of my cage to soar off to the next destination. Home is not my prison but my refuge, a sanctuary from the weight of the world around me, and yet the need to wander flows through me. It is the push and pull of going and coming home that captivates me.

My vagabond feet will always wander. The gypsy of my heart will forever long to go. Like waves upon the shore I will consistently return home. But for the rest of my days, I will crave the ancient memories, and the history steeped into the marrow. I cannot be caged by a stagnant life, but will find solace in the wandering.