Travel Side Effects

One night, it all changed. One day. One moment in time. Something told us to run.

New York City vibes with Allegheny mountain curves.
The lake. The harbor. And that damn creek back home.

The well I fell in when I was four in that village in Somalia.

It all made sense.

I let go. The Angels and the demons on my shoulders called it a truce. I was tired.

So I left. I obtained my degree in too many insignificant liberal art fields and left.

“Where the hell are you, Sahra?” Everyone asked.

I smiled.

They stopped asking a while ago.

Now they just pray for me in spirit.

I feel it when the wind blows. I smell it in summer rain.

I long for the normalcy that comes with routine mundane life.

I have no use for it now. I’ve seen too much. I’ve done too much.

Ive kissed too many flags and made love to too many hearts.

I’m scared to go back. Scared to be one of them. They are so dissatisfied.
A good friend told me I’m not living real life because real life is actually quite boring; That I thrive too much excitement.
But all the amazing souls I have met have encouraged me to keep traveling. Keep looking.

My friends do not know how it feels to be apart of an unfamiliar community.

Those two nights in Colorado. I can still feel the elevation change in my chest.

Riding on unfamiliar paths without their phones to snap a pic. Without social media to please.

They don’t know how it feels to fall in love with a stranger at the airport or hold hands with the farmer at night when he goes for his midnight horse ride.

They don’t know how it feels to taste forever as you say goodbye.

How Israel, the Philippines, and Lebanon all press the same buttons of desire.

How the air force, the navy, and the marines all sing the song of loneliness.

How country music became nostalgic

And Black Lives have never mattered more
They don’t know how sometimes being pretentious can be fun and anyone can be white trash, ghetto, or a hillbilly depending on the night.

My mother wants me to settle down.

My father wants me to be the little subdued girl he once knew.

Somalia wants me to save it.
I just want to live. One more swing on that tire.

One more kiss in a downpour.

One more bachata dance.

One more sigh of ecstasy as we promise to “get our shit together” in the morning

The morning will never come. As we stumble to get back to our “normal”’lives;

I’ll hand you my business card and pray your memories never call.