Thursday, January 5, 2012


 It's a hunger. An itch. A sneeze that must be sneezed or I will implode. Travelling has given me a gnawing need for a whole heaping plate of Knowledge, with New as an appetizer and Far Away as dessert. It cannot be described, life spread out. It's exhausting and frustrating and confusing and makes me feel dangerously insignificant, and yet I need to travel. To know everything there is to be known, to do everything there is to be done.
It's imagination, proven. It's fairytale, experienced. It's an entire section of my brain that I can no longer control because that part forever floating in a different hemisphere. It's opportunity and solution and result all wrapped into one. It's indescribable, obviously, but wanderlust has taken a hold of my mind and now I'm afraid I will never be cured.
I want to see a glacier, I want to eat snails, I want to be caught in a sandstorm. I want to understand people like I have never understood them before, I want to watch lives and affect them. I want NEW NEW NEW!  I want that after-Thanksgiving-dinner feeling where you are so stuffed to the brim and content, all you can do is ponder how full of goodness you are that you have absolutely no more room. I want a huge antique chest in my house, full of hijabs and gloves and bangles and kimonos I bought all over the world. I want a globe. One of those brown ones you see on English Proffesor's desks so I can point my four-year-old's hand to all the places mommy has seen.
I want to be a collage, the whole world strung and glued to one soul, shaping and thickening and colorizing. I want to shine with experience and speak with wisdom learned through years of New. Travelling is a passion, a sickness, and an obsession I cannot shake.

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