Sometimes I wonder if it’s dangerous to get attached to things. With my state of my mind of late, it’s dangerous. Over the past week or so, my wanderlust has been creeping up on me. Again.
I keep thinking of the job offer I turned down. The job offer that would have meant chappals, beads and bright colours. It would have meant my hair blowing in the piercing wind of a fast train. It would have meant the limitless possibilities of travel; beaches, art, culture, heritage. I could have immersed myself in literature and theatre and remembered what it felt like to be free.
Ah, but the things. The things that suggest permanence. People scoff and say things dont last forever. They’re trivial and meaningless. But are they really? The cartons of books that sailed towards me from a continent away. Poetry, prose, history, and art – are they meaningless? The bookends the S.O bought me for our house, Ms. R’s pretty boxes and pictures, P’s butterfly candles; the little things that made our house a home. Trivial? The boxes of memories under my desk and bed. Dried autumn leaves, scrapbooks, tattered ties, jewelled pens, handwritten notes, bar napkins. The rush and smell of who I am and who I used to be; temporary?
And yet, I think how easy and how liberating it would be to pack another suitcase and go. Travel by train, drink Kingfisher beer, trace my fingertips over books at Strand, feel the tangy smoothness of the lemon curd tarts at Candies on my tongue. And drown in the heady weightlessness of forgetting the reasons I stayed. The reasons that transcend even the things that tie me to permanence.
I stayed for love, for a career, for all the reasons people eventually grow up and become adults. I stayed because it was the right thing to do.
The right thing to do, the right thing to do, the right thing to do.
I just have to avoid large windows for a while. Blue skies and vast untouchable distances will do little to easing the potency of wanderlust.