I always idealised the life of the wanderer. You could run and roam and give in and give up and nobody would hold you to it. You could begin anew and you wouldn't have to settle any accounts, wouldn't have to make up or break up. There'd be a constant moving on, and you could be whoever you wanted to be because you wouldn't be afraid anyone would keep you accountable to anything.
And I'm still living in the home my family owns, but to be honest, even though there's always been a place to lay my head, I've said it out loud, that it's not like home, and I guess I have to admit the truth, about me being a wanderer.
I wanted to be a wanderer, because they can run away whenever life is too much to bear, and there'd be nothing or no-one keeping them anywhere. No ties, no chains, no pain. Wanderer's live out the romanticism of escapism and it's something I've been desperate to live in to, when all I can see is a bajillion pieces of existence that don't equate to anything like beauty and whole.
Coming from a girl whose been wandering the homeland -- tears live inside me, and it only takes a word to draw them right up and out. Weariness has successfully overtaken my body, my mind, my soul. I don't know what I believe in, but I know that somewhere here there's a God more real than I envision him to be -- a God more real than the abstraction I speak to in the sky.
I'm falling apart. I don't have any more dreams left, even the ones I left to sit quiet in me. They were there so long, I think they disintegrated. They were all for me, anyway. In the end, I was planning on using the world for mustering self-acceptance.
Apparently when I most want to disappear -- this is when I most want to be found.
I'm afraid that if I stop wandering, I'll have nothing. I'd rather suffer the illusion of everything than be faced with a reality that could be anything.
I'd rather string everything along in pieces than have it weaved into one dedicated whole, because I can leave pieces anywhere, but to walk away from something whole would be to walk away from myself.
I'd rather a muffled illusion of friendship, dreams, and plans than a certain assurance of whatever life really is. I've been avoidant. Avoided facing up to people and things wherever possible, no matter the cost. I'll flee and move on, but never forward.
I guess it's not where and to whom I travel -- but acknowledging where and with whom I am with, exactly as it is.
When I most want to disappear, I most want to be found? Right, here.