Airports are incredible places. Nowhere else can you cut the air with such precision, particles weighted with people's emotions.
Young people light-footed with anticipation, the unknown ahead of them unable to arrive quick enough.
The excitement of family reunions, sisters seeing each other after long years apart, tears from a mother holding her grown son as he returns home.
There's also confusion, people staring repeatedly at the overhead signs, trying to figure out where to go, new lands, new language and bags weighting them down as the wander back and forth.
And then there's the goodbyes. I had tears on my boarding pass today as I shuffled past the hostess directing me to my seat, the man next to me trying to help me sort my things but only adding to my hot fluster. Why on earth as I leaving?
Travel addiction is a cruel mistress, lassoing you away from your loved ones, your wrists perpetually cuffed to her endless pull into the great unknown. Everything you find warm and familiar dissatisfactory until you leave it behind.
I have left the caravan at home and am currently en route to South Africa. There are questions deep inside my chest as to why on earth I have made the choice to sleep alone for the next six weeks, to face the world solo once again. What is it that makes me continue to feed my addiction, even when I maybe don't need to.
I am utterly certain however, that when my feet touch African soil, my doubts will dissipate. This is not a one way voyage, this is a reunion.