The travel bug bites whenever it can, and wanderlust doesn’t sleep till you can’t, until the only way to live is to be upon a road to somewhere you’ve never been before. One foot over the other, running, with arms wide open, like a child. Travel leaves a wound in us, a mark of life, the blueprint of a universe which so wants you to learn that you are a part of it.

Travel is a vice, an addiction, affliction of eyes and hearts and feet that want more, more, always more, until the greatest satisfaction can only be found with the least. The simple. When a quiet, hunched tree could look like the most beautiful thing you’ve seen—and every other tree or rock or peak or water you see glows with the subtle and proud secret of all those years that came before you and will come after you—it’s humbling. It seems to me that no human can know any lasting happiness without first getting acquainted with just how small he really is in the face of all that he’s seen, and all that he hasn’t and cannot and will not. Maybe that’s what travel wants to teach us. Maybe that’s what we really seek to learn (and re-learn and re-learn) each time we venture beyond the thresholds of places we know, into the unknown.

Wanderlust is a mortal, life-changing soul-thirst, an imperative to seek that for which you were possibly made, and what have you else to do but to quench it?


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