I’m not speaking on the eternal traveling through time, because, well, you don’t really have a choice. I’m talking about the restlessness that walks hand in hand with your curiosity.
A few weeks ago I counted that I’ve been traveling abroad for the past eight years. Never settling down in my home country for more than six months. Always on the go. Curious about what’s next. Never comfortable enough to plan for longer than a few months ahead. Knowing that nothing ever go as planned anyways. And that immigration politics have a tendency to shut your plans down. So you better keep on your toes. Ready for change.
How easy it would have been if I never left.
Easy. I would’ve worked the language that I got my journalism degree in. Speaking to people whom understand my humor. Not always feeling like an alien. But what fun would it be?
How fun would it be to go to a bank where everything works? Speak to law-enforcement that weren’t corrupt. Have all my papers in order and not forget to sign at least one. And live safe and solid, close to my family and friends. Without bruised knees and a sore self-image. No adventure. Just stillness.
What an easy life I would live if I never move. Easy, simple, and calm. All the heartaches I would’ve avoided. I would have a little bit more memory space that wouldn’t be taken up by sunrises, sunsets and treetops. No nude swimming half a globe from where I was born. No culinary experiences with food that challenge my taste buds. No new friends who’s mother tongue sounds familiar. And no boarder control anarchy.
Being this far away from everything you know for so long isn’t easy. And I don’t recommend it. But at least I made some waves.
