Dream a little dream.

She came into my life when she didn't want to. She came into my life when I didn't want her, but needed her nonetheless, even without knowing it. She stole my heart, this pathetic life-giving organ I'd put a padlock on and decided it was forever out of business. Forever wasn't long enough. She breaks it, swirls it, makes me choke on it. I'm scared my poor little heart won't take it. I'm scared every day. I'm scared of losing her, of keeping her and of everything in between. I'm terrified of this being the right thing, the IT people spend lives and fortunes to find, but which itself elusive to most. I'm horrified to wonder what if she is the one for me, but eventually she'll outgrow me and leave me behind.

And then, she smiles. She doesn't say much, but when she does, my fears melt away. Her person surrounds me with joy. Painful jolts of consciouness, letting me know I'm alive. I can't even remember the last time I was paranoid about something. I also don't recollect ever feeling so sure and unsure at the same time. Like in any given moment, I'm required to take a leap of faith, but that there is an invisible cord making sure I'll land safely.

Who knows. She's fast asleep in bed. Her breathing is regular and calm, her expression peaceful, the corners of her mouth slightly turned upwards, in a weak smile.

I hope she dreams of me.

Wanderlust.

May. Saturday morning. I’m sitting here reading a travelling blog whilst trying to ignore my daily to-do list. The woman on the front cover is a typically 20-something American, who just happened to leave her home in order to ‘slowly and thoroughly’ (her words, not mine) explore the world. I go down the page and it slowly dawns on me that her life seems quite appealing. To just leave everything behind and make your way through the world, as days go by… It definitely has a magical air to it. Maybe just today, cause I have job applications to get back to and list of newspaper contacts to pursue.

But still. I often think that it shouldn’t be this hard. Putting everything behind and just embracing other cultures and countries, not having to worry about what will happen when (and if) you finally decide to return home. Such is life, though. Instead, we must travel on holidays and in between, we must make sure that our resumes are consistent enough, our haircuts are conventional enough, our lives are bland enough. I still believe it shouldn’t be this hard. And then I stop to think about why I’m paralysed in the human circle that is ‘normal’.

Sometimes I think it’s the lack of courage. I certainly am not brave enough to face the world while not knowing what’s going to happen next week. Despite it having a Jack Kerouac sense to it, which is entirely tempting and even possible at times. Or maybe it’s the bundle of responsibilities that comes with moving away from home and having to fend for one’s self. As much as I want to hit the first airport that I happen to see, I keep thinking that I still need to finish school, get a ‘proper’ job (what is that, even) and generally, just figure out what life is; what my life is. And then I catch a glimpse of her, and she’s doing something mundane like reply work emails or talking to her parents, and I understand that among all the other things, she’s also keeping me here. Not consciously, because if I wanted to leave she’d be the first one to wish me a safe flight. And then she’d get lost in the midst of memories that I’d eventually accumulate. That is definitely not something I want. Ideally, I’d drag her with me, so we can both experience the world and get to know ourselves and each other in the process. Even more than we’re doing it now, living together. They say travelling with another person is a sure way to know if a relationship is for real. Among many other things.

But then, if I press the matter even further, I get to the bottom of the problem. The only thing stopping me is me. I want to travel the world, but I also want to make sure I get to do something with my life. That when I reach my old age, I won’t be sitting in a chair, wishing I had stayed put and built a future, instead of waiting for it to happen. So in the end, it turns out that my own worst enemy is just my very ‘normal’ desire to belong in a society that ever so often shuns me out and calls me abnormal. Mindgames.

In the meantime, I’ll keep reading other people’s travel blogs, occasionally feeling a tinge of jealousy, but knowing that ultimately, I’m only doing what I really want to do. Off to my applications I go.