Is there a cure for restlessness? I want to leave, rip the map from my wall and drive. I feel too young, too potent, and far too large for my body. I am not any of those things, I am old enough to feel ashamed for crying in public, helpless enough to settle, and just large enough that I take too much space, but not enough for anyone to take notice. Give me thicker blood that runs slower underneath so that I am not so impatient, an old heart, worn out and broken from young love so that I don’t fall for every stranger with a pair of bright eyes and one way tickets to beautiful cities. Better yet, make me reckless and unafraid, because I am not brave enough for restlessness and dreams and big cities with bright lights, and the only thing worse than being a coward is being a coward with dreams too big and desperate for cowardice.
I’ve been dreaming of all the places of the world. I’m nineteen and still have pictures collected from travel magazines and brochures plastered across my wall. A reminder of the ultimate dream. Everything I do is to get me to these places. I want to see the great Machu Picchu, nestled between high water-colour Mountains, blanketed in a mantle of cloud. I want to walk the vaulted corridors of Angkor Wat, the lost city of spires and tiers and lotus-bud towers, and stretch myself out across the riddled floor knowing that I am touching the same surface the ancients once treaded. I want to stand in front of the Giza pyramids, neck craning up and sun glinting off stone, with the rising feeling that swells like an ocean tide - the desire to be so much more eternal, an embedded bookmark in History’s pages. Italy. I want everything about Italy. The coliseum of Rome, where gladiators lived, feared, won glory and died in transitory, fleeting moments under my feet. Venice, with the sunlight sprinkled over labyrinth waterways. Or a sky as grey as stone, hazy ambience and canals wrinkled by tapping rain. I want to see a Venetian fog, slithering in as heavy as fear, the air like dense cotton, creasing against buildings and puckering over water. Stone melting into each stride, unravelling the Palazzo like a gift - a vat of opaque nothingness. How eerie the muffled ghost voices slicing through the fog, severed from the source. Ah, and let’s not forget Positano, a shackling of houses ledged across the mountain face, the sheltered curve and curling streets of Amalfi Coast – Italy’s seaside gem. Greece. Chalk white stone of Santorini, Zakynthos’ inviting, cerulean waters or the Parthenon perched atop Athens like a sentry. How do you describe perfection? I could go on forever. When I was younger I wanted to see everything, and by this I mean every single rock and tree, every inch of beaten earth. I still do. I want to gather it all in my arms, like pinching the tattered edges of a map and folding it up together, to carry with me and peek at when I wish. I want to exist everywhere, in everything, all at once.