I see people who are naturally adventurous and think about them a lot. There’s some element of not being witness to the laborious conversation with their own inner-critics–those thoughts that run through their heads late at night from the time they’ve resolved to adventure and the time they’ve boarded the plane–that makes them seem even more magical.
I admire people who throw off the chains and carve their own paths. I aspire to be that person. The person that others look at with their need for convention and tradition and convenience, and say, “that seems irresponsible.” I live for that. It’s the barometer I use to know my life is in order. I’m a fringer living the life of a suburban reject.
So, here I am, starring a new adventure down the nose. I’m excited, I daydream, and I etch a new path in my mind. Somehow, I feel like I’m already there. Maybe I don’t even have to actually go, given how good my brain is at conjuring up images of things that haven’t happened yet. Simultaneously, I’m nervous and scared and I get cold feet once in a while.
A voice runs through my head: You don’t regret the travel you’ve done, only the travel you haven’t done.
Travel. It’s such a strange concept. I just came out of a period of my life that was an interesting adventure. It was a three month period that began and ended, and I played a role that was somewhat alien to me, and it was a total trip. It wasn’t always easy, but even in the worst of it, I thought, “What a grand adventure I’m on.”
What I think about travel is this: It’s possible that we’re traveling every day. You’ll be better off in your life if you believe that. You’re just a single human strapped to an earth that is traveling at a good click around a sun, likely drifting in the galaxy, free floating in whatever’s bigger than a galaxy. You aren’t what you do, or the place you’re in; that’s all just part of the trip.
So, enjoy it.