Island in the Gulf

Travel is not glamorous. Not the way we do it anyway. But if it can make you cry, and stop your thoughts, then it’s worth it.

You meet friends you hardly know anything about, but are bonded for life, with unsaid words of experiences you shared together.

It’s not long term, but it doesn’t make it not real.

You meet people. Some you know will never travel like this again, either tainted by a terrible experience or checked out and done using squatter toilets, ready to go home.

You meet people. People you can talk to all night and see yourself in them, their vulnerability, raw and exposed out of their normal environments.

You meet people. People you can get lost with, people you could love, people you can feel like yourself with, people you would never think you would relate to.

What becomes of it, who knows, but they are all part of your story and you are a part of theirs.

And then there are the days that you don’t. That you feel so alone. That it seems like everyone around you is with friends or loved ones, and you are on an alien planet just witnessing it all.

But then there are days like this. When you get the back of the boat to yourself, to watch your beloved home for the last few weeks slowly become smaller and smaller until it’s gone.

I know all about attachment. Nothing can be held onto, nothing is constant. This life is not permanent. And to leave it behind hurts like hell. But still, my heart opens more each time it breaks.

Until next time, my island in the gulf.

On the ferry heading back to reality