I Travelled Too Much
I travelled so much I didn’t like it anymore. But I couldn’t stop because the thought of going home was far scarier than the feeling of being unstuck.
I travelled so far that I no longer knew how I chose my destinations, that somehow everything became slightly the same. Yet always I wanted to know what was around the next bend.
I travelled to cold places even though I love the heat. I travelled to hot places even though I need to get my skin out of the sun before it resembled that of a lizard.
I travelled for so long my mind became a chasm of boundless time and space, a valley dyed purple by dwindling sunlight, streaked by dried riverbeds and paths trodden hard by my own feet.
I travelled to understand new people until I no longer understood myself. Not because I didn’t know myself but because I had changed.
I travelled to find myself but instead I lost myself to the world.
I travelled in search of paradise until I found myself in the area between the sky and sea, suspended in the clouds like a kite whose owner let go of the string.
I travelled to feel alive until it made me feel dead.
But then being still is what really kills me.