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Leaving is harder than arriving.

At the end of my vacations, I always feel a slight anxiety on the last day. I mean, I just got here, how can I go? I’ve never been one of those people who longed for home.  What is home anyway? Is it the familiar, the routine?  I never think about leaving when I embark on the vacation simply because I am usually happy to be involved in this part of leaving. I’m happy to be free of the everyday chains and excited for new experiences.  I focus on this and put the unavoidable out of my mind.  I arrive, I settle in, I start to feel its aura, start to let go of the known “home” and make wherever I am my new “home.”  Inevitably, I fall in love, and don’t want to leave.  I’m full of attachment, much to the dismay of my non-attachment having intentions.  Travel is such a sensory experience; I’d say it’s hard not to fall in love for my” living in the moment” type of personality. It’s all new, and I’m happy.  When it’s time to leave, I get anxious, I act out. I can’t fathom going back. I sink because I know what’s waiting for me on the other side. Repetition, routine, reality.  While I was having this breakdown just a day ago before heading “home,” a realization hit me. I don’t go on vacation to sightsee, I travel to live.  I travel to wake up when I want to, to wander, to explore or be sloth like. All my senses are alive and awake, driving my mind at a speed so fast; I can barely contain it enough to formulate the ideas into words on a page.  I am alive because the routine is gone and I have a new found freedom that I am living my life for myself.  When I return home, if you know me, it is best to avoid me. Instead of being on a “high” from my vacation, I am depressed and miserable (and generally just a joy to be around, clearly).  It’s the realization that my soul is a renegade, and it suffers when I stuff it fancy office gear and abandon it Monday through Friday, from 8am to 4pm. It is a realization of how can we go back to what we “know” when there is so much left to find out?

So, perhaps it is the idea of freedom, the idea of really living, that I am in love with as much as the place itself.   Often I find myself thinking, is leaving really inevitable? What if I just disappeared into the mist (ok, exaggeration, but it would be totally cool, no?), just abandoned my stiff office chair and just took on the job of “keep moving?” Would I end up hating travel, and begging for the routine?  I’m not sure, but there’s really only one way to find out…

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One response »

  1. Nicely put! Glad you enjoyed your time away & looking forward to hear about where you’ll be heading next! 😀

    Reply

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