Weary over places I have yet to see


If I could, I would spend my life on the move. Villages to towns. Cities to countries. Continents to dust paths eager for my feet. There is an entire world that awaits me – there are languages my ears crave to hear, foods I want to roll on my tongue, and smells that have yet to fill my lungs. I look longingly at photos of places so unknown to me beyond the pages of a magazine, and I envy hosts on travel shows smiling on TV. Late at night as the voice of my man trickles into my ear, we allow ourselves to dream of floating in the Dead Sea, a rock on my belly, unsinkable and happy.

If I had the means and if my dreams were big enough, I would age out of a suitcase, watching myself wrinkle from the sun and shores in pictures I would upload from coffee shops.

The world is calling, and though my patchwork heart longs for the fabrics, patterns, and stitches of the unknown, I am oddly being pulled in by this city. There are parks and buildings I have only peered into that hold the wonder of the Coliseum, (should I ever make my way to Rome). It seems, though many friends have told me they’re eager to move on, to start anew, to being fresh…. I am still a tourist in my country.

I am reluctant to call this “home”… I don’t belong here any more or any less than I belong to other places stamped in my passport. I’ve realized that home isn’t where my heart is because pieces of me are floating around the globe, in a letter, in an email, in a gift where I have given myself to those I love most. Right now, home is wherever my head rests to sleep, and one day, I hope that “home” will have an arm around me and will dream of places to traverse from the pillow next to mine.

But until the gold band finds a permanent fixture on my left hand, I am left with a desire to explore and while this place has a finger beckoning me (be it through friends, family or my job), while I have no plans of crossing the border or the oceans, I’ll console my unsettled self by walking the winding gullies and searching aging eyes that ask me to no longer be a stranger.

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1 comment
  1. sam said:

    i found it quite poetic, “right now, home is wherever my head rests to sleep,” and all parts of the world,
    you could write a poem like the recently who am i- type
    don’t be offended but hope to see a poem about this article
    it sounds nice in a poem
    really looking forward to it

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