Somewhere in my soul beats the heart of a true nomad. I am never more at peace than when I travel. Sipping a beverage at thirty-thousand feet, feeling the clickety-clack of the wheels of a train on the tracks beneath me, watching the world change from majestic country or mountain views to cityscapes and traffic on a road trip are the sensations that thrill my imagination and give my never-ending sense of restlessness a hiatus.
I dream of places I’ve never been. I yearn for the calming thrill of the unknown. I struggle to understand, much less relate to, the need to settle down that brings so many people peace.
To be certain, there’s a peaceful comfort in the familiar, but my urge to travel is overwhelming. It creeps into the quiet ease of home and stirs the compelling force that can only be satisfied elsewhere. Even planning a trip brings on a high. Is this the definition of wanderlust?
I crave the opportunity to throw some things into a bag, check in at the counter and wander a concourse before taking my seat, buckling up and heading off to a new destination. I embrace the euphoria as the plane pushes back from the gate; the anticipation as it lines up at the end of the runway; the thrill as the engines roar to life and push me back in my seat; and the enthralling welcome to weightlessness as the next adventure begins. I find myself, once again, catching a glimpse of the world below, just beyond the engine and wingtip out my window. It inspires my creativity and soothes my soul. Yes, the end of this trip overlaps my desire to start the next one. It’s a non-stop need to explore, chase new destinations and know the as-yet unknown.
To my fellow travelers: I look forward to meeting you in some far flung place. To the man who shares this incomprehensible need: thank you for understanding and even encouraging me to answer the call. Darling, let’s always be adventurers together.
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