Living out of a suitcase seems like a dream to a lot of people. Oh, the adventures that await, right?
There are those who choose to take life by the horns and travel the world, carrying nothing but one suitcase, city to city. And then there are people who never stop looking for something to hold on to, somewhere to belong. When you go on vacation, you know you’re going home after. When you move into a new house, you know that this is your next big step forward, that this is where you are and where you are going to be for the foreseeable future. But living the way I have has wrecked me. It’s like a race car not having a pit stop, just driving ’round and ’round until you run out of fuel or crash. I have both run out of fuel and crashed, multiple times. And with no home base for a pit stop, I have no chance of repair.
Perhaps, I’ve played too much at dress up and I can’t get out of the costume anymore. The game face is now broken, I no longer know how to fake it.
I took for granted what it was like to have your very own space, where “home” actually stood for something. I had the privilege of permanence. Nowadays, every place is only a substitute for whatever is next, and then that is only temporary until the next place. I haven’t fully unpacked my bags in two years. But the sad thing is that I haven’t gone anywhere either.
Surely I’ve learnt something in all this time. If I have, then I don’t know what that is yet. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll miss this. Maybe I’ll miss never standing still long enough to taste the air or to see the sun set.