What is Traveling?

When I Knew I Could Go Home

Originally written on paper in the Sevilla bus station.

(c) Colin Willox

What is traveling?

Traveling is being shit-scared of not knowing where you’ll be in one hour. With no one else. With new people. New friends. Deep new connections.

It is discovering. Discovering this brand new place. Discovering who these people are. Why are they like this? Why aren't you? Traveling is constant bombardment with new. New places. New faces. New language. New smells.

Traveling is holding on to any piece of that newness you can. Making it part of yourself. Taking a piece of yourself and giving it back in reciprocation. It’s endless possibilities. Endless opportunities. A unique cocktail of seized and missed ones. Ones you had all along, ones you barely had time to understand.

Traveling is an explosion. It fills you to the brim. To the point when you feel as though you can’t take anymore. It’s an addiction because you want more, you need more. You can’t think of any other way.

Traveling is people. Movement. Trading energy. Sleeping a whole day after living all night. It’s throwing caution to the wind and yelling “fuck off” after it. Traveling is standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing what you’re doing. Why are you doing this? Why not? What else is there?

Traveling is a snapshot of a world in constant flux. Constant motion. Stillness shows itself in the moments where your head is spinning and your heart is pumping. The external world pauses for a breath while your insides spin a hurricane.

Traveling is wondering what will happen. Not wanting to decide but enjoying the thrill of pushing forward. Traveling is loneliness. Hiking to who-knows-where. It’s ending up exactly where you were supposed to. Knowing you made the right decision by making the wrong one. The hard one. Traveling is what’s next? It’s a tease. Such a massive tease. It’s finding your bearings and losing them. Creating connections and unwillingly severing them. It’s hope. Hope that these connections will hang on by a thread. One thread that refuses to give in.

Traveling is finding that place, that thing, or that someone you had no idea you were looking for.

Traveling is beautiful.

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