Wanderlust

I've got to go go go go go go go. This is the only thing I am sure of. The only certainty in my life. The certainty of knowing you need to go off into the world. When my wanderlust is at its worst, my feet ache to find worn shoes scattered with holes to house them for the journey. My fingers flail about in misery, searching for a steering wheel. Other times my wanderlust feels like a pair of tight wool pants: annoying and itchy but bearable, for now.

I have been plotting and planning and replanning, hatching and rehatching schemes and dreams in my head. A plane trip. A road trip. Train hobo. No, a road trip. For now, the most attainable. I'm inexperienced in this sort of thing. Untested. Adventureless. I brought it up with Nicole. She seemed into the idea. We could go far off places! India, Ireland, Russia, New Zealand. Too expensive. I brought up the idea of just road tripping the country. Hop in the car without a plan. No, we need a plan. A grand one, one that will test us and make us live, really live. Force the life out of us and into the world around us. All this life bottled up safe inside our bodies, it isn't doing anything there. The world needs our lives and our lives need the world.

This can't be just a road trip. My imagination thinks of campfires on the beach, sleeping on couches, in cars next to huge expanses of motorway, under trees on a bed of springy moss, in a lonely hammock near someone's house. All of this is set to a soundtrack that would make Wes Anderson weep openly. In my head. On paper, It won't be like that. But it is at least worth a go. My brain continues to plan. I discover the joys of couch surfing. The plan is crawling. Soon it will learn to walk.