“Why do you love traveling?”
I recall, dusting the lids of the moments tucked in the closet of my memories, shoveled between decaying, mahogany bookcases nestled in the labyrinths of my mind. Soft pages, my fingers rummaging through, the soft sunlight from a window of awareness, descends ever so delicately upon the fragile pages of experiences, backpack hanging off one shoulder, meandering through a fish market, balancing on the journey of a 60-mile bike ride, pages, pages yellowing with antiquity, bounded by the smell of old, worn leather.
Love is a feeling. A melancholic longing for something in the past, present or future. It is an overwhelming craving, of lust, longing, a moment in its purest freedom, in its untainted form, contained only by the chains of passion.
We are constantly seeking, craving, wildly sprinting after a love tied to a human being. We need, no, want, no – are fixated on this superficial idea of a lover, a savior – the kind that wears a Superman cape and swoops down to save you from the perils of a humdrum life.
Why do we tie our every changing wants, our desire to understand ourselves, to one unique human being? Why do we tie our happiness, our sadness, and all that comes between to someone we arbitrary picked out from a sea of individuals?
Places, not People.
I believe you should fall in love with a place. With an experience. With a feeling, created by a mix of fleeting instants. A shy first kiss on the bottom of the Swiss Alps. Hands cold, toes damp, snow gently falling as we slowly brush the frosty crystals off our innocent youth. A lustful moment in a midsummer night, night as dark as the tail feather of a black raven. And once again, next to you. Craving, lusting. We’re surrounded by late 19th century buildings, the night as silent as a dead man’s grave while neither one of us can admit, and accept the innocence behind each other’s eyes. A two hour journey, cramped into two small seats on our way to New York City. A runaway, a getaway. A moment steeped with freedom and beautiful impermanence. Love songs recited ever so tenderly. Lost in our whimsical fairytale, our heads rest with melancholy at a companionship that cannot be.
Places, not People.
It is the moment that moves us. The series of happenings that unanimously unraveled to make the heart quiver. The overwhelming sense of perfection.
People are like stars. A dust within the speckle of time, a sparkling fragment of a new found memory. People shine, come and go. Ephemeral synchronizations.
Places, however, always remain the same. Past, present and future, they are the old friend who beckons you home, the one who supports both your happiness and sorrow. Places are the blank canvas you are about to paint, about to slash. They are the heavens you are about to glitterize. And with a splash, you illuminate all the small slivers of life. They become a part of you, a part of the dusty memories you keep so closely hidden in those mahogany bookshelves, littering the hallways of your mind’s labyrinth.
Places. Not people. Love the place where you can be you, the place where you will be who you want to be. After all, how can you fall in love with a person, when all you’re looking for is the missing piece of the puzzle to yourself?
(Sent from New York City)