I have traveled a little in my brief life. I’ve been to some lovely places in America, England, France, and Italy. Unfortunately, I find myself getting very attached to certain times and places. I build a sort of mind palace around them. I visit them. I feel them–I hold them close like a good, sweet-smelling book. Sometimes, I get so much pent-up longing for them that I get a little weepy.

Why can’t I be there now?

Why am I not sitting in a tree on Hampstead Heath on a rainy day? Or wandering around Florence or Venice on a warm, hazy evening? Why can’t I be in a bookstore in Oxford? Shouldn’t I be sitting on a beach in Bermuda, watching the sun set, reading? Why am I here?

Teleportation should be a thing. I like the idea. I know that it’s impossible and would theoretically kill me, but it would be nice to soothe the ache for other places.

For now, I have to settle for Google Maps. Yes, I stalk my favorite locations. Do I want to be on Salisbury Plain? Or the country outside of Rome? Fine. I’ll go look at pictures other people took. Maybe they’ll actually have turned out nicely. Nicely enough to remind me of the good times there.

To make me close enough to remembering that it’s still bittersweet–just a lessened pain.


One thought on “Wanderlust”

  1. Reblogged this on Finding me. and commented:
    It’s a feeling of being homesick – even when you are home. That’s the problem with falling in love with a place or a moment. You leave a little bit of your heart with it when you go.


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