Confession time: Some people are addicted to drinking, shopping and sex. I am addicted to travel. It isn’t a new thing. If you read my first posts on this blog, you’ll have noticed how I tend to put off the important things in life until the last minute and preoccupy myself browsing holiday websites. I guess that’s how I cope with stress, spending hours reading travel descriptions and dreaming about where I want to go next.
I print out maps, learn new words, check out books and films, and research the history and culture of a place. By then, I am knee-deep in the throes of infatuation. The only cure is to meet my destined location, face-to-face.
Sometimes I immerse myself to such a degree that I am tired and saturated before I even get there. Like an overbrewed cup of tea, the experience can be bitter and unpleasant if I spend too long obsessing.
Sometimes I fall in love with a place so much, I end up making reckless vows to move there immediately.
While I think I’ve matured over the years and have tried to stay put, the infamous 7 year itch is coming. I can feel it. I call of wanderlust is hypnotic and compelling: like a siren song that seems intent on disrupting any peace I’ve accumulated.
I always want to be where I am not.
Logic tells me I need stability to be able to flesh out a solid work schedule, but if I stand still for too long I fear I will disappear. I have such a irrational fear of being stuck in dullsville. Perhaps I need to learn not be so restless and flighty.
The truth (if you haven’t guessed it already), is that secretly I dont want to be cured. I am happy being a slave to my wanderlust. Now if I could just figure out the omniscient dilemma.