| to flee (verb) | /fɥiʀ/
My blog is a little bit Sylvia Plath, a little bit Jack Kerouac, or so I like to think. I feel everything on a large scale, so my deepest emotions are inextricably linked with my travels. As Plath once said, “I am terrified of this dark thing / That sleeps in me.” It’s followed me through the orange groves of Spain, to the mountains of Tennessee, and to the Wicklow Hills in Ireland. And how foolish, how cocky I was to think I had finally become invincible. I stood and bared my teeth at the world, and the world retaliated.
I spent the week in Dublin, sipping coffee and Bailey’s while watching the rain. The kindness of strangers was enough to make me cry. After months of struggling to establish myself in Lille, I finally felt appreciated and welcome somewhere. Like the fool I am, I allowed myself to be vulnerable, and I was embraced. The universe’s lessons are so wasted on me, because I never seem to learn. I am a worthless student of the universe. Forgive me of this hubris which has brought me to my knees, but I cannot promise that I will not fuck up again. My stupid mouth. Why am I here? What is my greater purpose? As far as I’ve travelled, have I really made a mark on this world?
How typical of me to talk about myself. You’ve all become so tired of my soliloquies. I apologize, but do you know how frightening it is to be unable to trust your own perception of the world? Writing is a means of reclaiming my sanity.
Dear God, I pray that one day I won’t feel so out of place. There is not enough space for me in this world. I’ve run across continents and over seas chasing this insatiable thirst for adventure and unspeakable sensations, and I am so terrified that I will never be triumphant. I will wander as aimless as a ghost through the mystery fields of foreign places, and you will watch me go. You will watch my burning gypsy soul disappear on the horizon, and you will not follow me, because God knows if I’ll ever make it back home.