Why do some people travel and some stay at home?
It’s not cowardice that makes them stay; it can’t be, not when my absolute terror of being boxed-in and chained down to one place, one way of thinking, keeps me running on and on and on… no. It’s not that simple.
I was told once that I was like the missing piece… you know, from the children’s story? Searching ever and on, trying to find a place where I fit, not realizing that I can decide to stay, decide to just stay and be… me. Eventually the edges wore down, and the missing piece was whole… how rough are my edges? How long do I roll until I’m worn into something stable? Not missing, not lost, just… me.
This seemingly endless journey is a good one, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but sometimes my soul gets weary, and I long for the home I was never convinced that I had, or deserved, and eventually decided I didn’t need. But I do. I really do. And maybe that’s why they stay… they already know, and I’m still learning.