Usually, travelling did me good. I’d feel such a wave of enthusiasm at the thought of the possibilities I had ahead of me that it almost overwhelmed me. I’d love just thinking about the feeling of walking on that subtle line between known and unknown, and the bliss of feeling even the slightest connection with a new place.
Still, this time was different, as if I weren’t allowed to be myself. Who was I, really? What did I want to be? The answers to these and many other question blurred out during the time I spent abroad, as if being in another place set me on a sort of survival mode, where I had to put everything I had and everything I was in a cage and hide the key in a safe place. As if I’d loose myself and wouldn’t be able to find me ever again, or as if I wasn’t allowed to change while others were watching, not wanting them to see me losing my old skin. But I would try to capture moments, and faces, and sights, views, glances, places, trees, words, and time, colours, sounds, feelings, everything I could fit in my head, my eyes, my ears, my hands.
Once I was back home, I would feel everything getting clearer, and lighter, and I myself was light again, a proud robin spreading his wings and flying away in the cold light of January.
Craving travelling once it was over, again.
heimdimension 