Making the world mine

Posted on Posted in Wander

In my little corner, my fortress of solitude, I look at the my grandma’s globe. The places I’ve been, bring a curve to my lips. The places I dream of, make my heart race. Oh, how I wish to make them all home. From the Serengeti to Santorini, sprinkle a part of me. Even when I die, I will stay alive, in the places I’ve been.

The people, oh the people and their stories. Stories of watching the northern lights from an iglu and getting lost in the middle of a desert with only a bottle of water and the mundane stories of immigration and that kid behind you kicking your seat through the 14 hour flight. The thousand sunsets, all over horizons brand new, each with their own hues. My feet, sore and blistered every day from walking the cobble stoned roads, discovering cafes tucked fountains unknown. Try and talk to the owner, who will recall how he survived the civil war but his wife didn’t, and yet he smiles when he tells you about his grandkid in college. Then, my heart will hurt more than my feet and yet, somewhere I will heal.

The monuments grand and the ruins of civilisations that were once so majestic, the history of the world overlapped, laughing at my pride and my privilege. Questioning the dichotomy of ethics I was taught, for how could I tell right from wrong, when the lioness orphans the fawn to feed her cubs. The stars shining, perhaps brighter in my eyes than in the skies, giving me a moment of solace and the ever longing peace. I breathe again, without the burden of life daunting, but only the promise of another story.

It will not all rainbows and glitter, no. There will be plenty of missed flights and hacked credit cards, hostel beds that are squeaky and drunken nights including throwing up on the street. There will be moments, I think, that will make my knees weak. Ones where I will collapse on the street and curse my decisions that have only made me wallow in sorrow. But, nevertheless, I get back up and I go. Perhaps far, far away or into the narrow lane to give the place another chance, only one last time.

That’s what I dream of, of days I cannot plan and nights I cannot predict, the good and the bad but never boring. Okay, sometimes boring. But all those moments, the intense, vivid moments, cannot be bought but must be experienced for them to be tattooed onto my soul so they never fade.

So that one day, when my heart is weak I know that’s only because it is so full. When my mind is slow, I know that’s only because it is so wise.

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