“The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea.”
— Isak Dinesen
I finished Into the Wild this afternoon, and I teared up a bit. I don’t know why I’ve felt so emotional lately, but it’s not completely unusual for my eyes to blur over a book. I thought this one was extremely insightful and well-written, and it has me rethinking my reading tastes: I’d like to read more travel novels and nonfiction going forward.
I really have nothing useful or important to say tonight. I was about to close my laptop after watching a few episodes of Grace and Frankie when I paused, and then reopened Safari and my Notes and decided to write. My brother John just got home from Costa Rica a few minutes ago, and aside from seeing my dog, that’s probably the most exciting thing that’s happened since I’ve been back. I’ve been spending too much time on my phone, connecting with people I met abroad who are either still traveling or who are back home, as well. I like to hear what they’re doing, and we talk about our next trips and what we want from life, how travel has changed us and when we might be able to meet up again. It feels good to stay in touch, helps me feel more grounded here, ironically. Yet I hate feeling glued to a screen, and with little else going on in the two weeks I’m home, it’s hard not to be.
Last night, I decided to take a nap around 7:50 pm. I awoke from said nap at 8:15 this morning, simultaneously confused, amused, and wondering if I could still blame jet lag. The truth is, I’m always tired. I have perpetual half moons under my eyes, dark purple circles that haven’t faded in years. I can’t even remember my face without them, or when they first appeared. If I got nine hours of sleep per night for a solid few weeks, I’d probably feel rejuvenated, but how often does that happen? Uh, never. I feel incredibly lazy, just lounging around the house and sleeping all the time, but I am exhausted. And bored. And really missing the exciting life that I’ve just left behind. It’ll be okay once I’m back at uni, I think, surrounded by friends and assignments and a little more structure (only a little, though). I just thank God I wasn’t home more than four weeks in total this summer—I think I would have gone crazy.
I’ve got something else I want to say, but don’t have the energy or brainpower to articulate it well. It involves the urge to run away, to get away, and to be alone, all at the same time. While I’m home, I dream about doing the little things, the simple ones I know will make me feel alive. Like standing out in a storm and letting the rain soak me through. Like sitting alone on the end of Davis Island late at night, contemplating life as I stare at the light-polluted starry sky. Like driving to the beach and spending a day caught up in the salt and sand, sunshine and sea. Maybe even camping there overnight. It’s funny because I don’t end up doing most of these things. Simply the thought that I can, if I truly need that escape, comforts me.
“We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.”