It’s a secret to no one that my lungs and heart and soul are filled with wanderlust. That my every breath longs for new air, my every step searching new horizons.
I enter a new place fully prepared to fall in love.
To fall in love with unfamiliar faces, face unforgiving truths. I see my reflection in ugly buildings. I find my depth in brilliant food. The experience, the awe, the wonder–both exquisite and unrelenting.
I find myself smitten, enchanted, engrossed. Hopelessly tangled within novelty. Addicted to magic. Chasing the light in places so starkly, darkly different from where I call home.
Home was the same place for a long time. I’d reluctantly enter her airspace and see her changed, altered, ever so slightly reborn while I was away.
And while I loved her, I also couldn’t wait to leave her again. I never stopped searching faces that were not hers.
Never stopped sneaking out from beneath the covers, dancing on silent feet toward the front door.
I left the new places and returned to the old, the familiar, the constant. Lamented my return–longed for what I’d seen and heard and done.
For home can pale in comparison to adventure’s vibrant color. The nuance lost, the mediocrity apparent. Prisms changed to mirrored glass, and I did not like what I saw.
Until I moved away, planted my roots in new gardens, called the soil of another my own.
Until home stopped being that place I am and started being the place I once was.
Until I returned to that place and found myself in love again.
Until the laments of obligatory retreat shifted to odes of joyful homecoming.
Until I looked back as her as I left, and wished I had not loved her so weakly, so haphazardly.
Until I realized that she had always waited, welcomed, wanted… exactly how I needed her to.
Until I saw that she was, and is, and might always will be: home.