The days are suddenly abbreviated, as is my patience. I cannot sit still, I cannot shake the patter of retreating footsteps that lingers ever at the precipice of my waking mind. Pieces of my self are slowly peeling off and traipsing away and I cannot follow them all at once, so I am resigned to give them the head start on which they seem intent and am resigned to one day soon setting out to collect them all whence they wandered and hid.
After 6 months in planes, trains, cars, cabins, tents, hammocks, rivers, sunshine, dirt, pain, wind, rain….sitting still is impossible. Rather than settling into a routine to soothe the ache and exhaustion of stillness after movement, I find myself bracing feet and calloused hands against the slick mahogany rim of this box in which I refuse to lay down and die.
I want sunshine on my naked chest, and I want the arctic wind creeping in through the seams. I want to be in between as much as I’m anywhere else and big bowls of soup for breakfast. I want love that I can keep, love I can take with me. I want quiet outside so I can hear the songs in my head.
What time does the sun go down in Morocco? What would I be eating for breakfast if I was in Argentina? What’s Maui like in the middle of the might? How do I get there? Where do I start?