With such sudden enthusiasm, I want to travel everywhere, pack myself a suitcase full of precious, comfortable things and watch the scenery shift underneath me. I've learned that the sun feels different on your shoulders depending on where you are at the time; I want to feel the sun on me in Jamaica, looking down from an ornate balcony in Paris, sampling unusual delicacies on the streets of Thailand.
The anonymity of travel is so appealing. I used to disparage my fellow American for entering another country on holiday without knowing the language, but imagine the freedom this affords you - to spend those quickly slipping days obligated to no one and nothing, the complete removal from social situations you aren't prepared for - imagine knowing only enough of anything to get exactly what you need, and then spending every other second in blissful, left-alone ignorance. You become another part of the scenery. And how much more important is the companion you travel with ever going to be than during these stranger-in-a-strange-land exercises in emotional surrealism?
Lover and I were discussing just yesterday, with an attitude that swung between realistic and playful, how we will soon shun all responsibility and take to the streets, walk from one end of the country to the other as hobos and document the experience. I can't help but to romanticize the whole thing, to think, almost as if I'm intoxicated, that this is how it should be. That we would be discovered, that we would be so perfectly undone in a life without luxury.
I am so ready for an adventure. I have felt for years, even in moments so blissful they were obscene, that my life still hasn't begun; that I've been stranded in this outdated and malfunctioning version of myself because I haven't heard the gun go off yet, because the race simply hasn't started. I am so ready for an adventure.
I am so ready to Begin.