And so I find myself with the same silly thought in my head. The same silly thought that won’t stop coming until I can answer it well. The same silly thought I will dance around for the next few lines of text and won’t be able to succintly elaborate. The same silly thought that could turn my life around but just won’t.
It was a fleeting thought at first. One that kept wading into the future the way a ship sails away to only come back every so often from a long journey out. But it has recently turned into an airline jet, pestering me with the certain delivery of passengers to the gates of this airport that doesn’t know what language to speak to its customers. Sure, it can address them equally well in both, but doesn’t know which one to begin the discourse with.
And so the journey continues, be it by boat or plane. To a destination unkown, which makes the parcours the more so contrived. Will we ever get there? Will the destination be worth the trip? One thing is for sure, the companionship if first class, and the stops along the way have been nothing short of magnificent. Yet the angst remains.
The angst of turning into that accidental tourist that never was more than that, a tourist in a land where he was not called to be anything other than that. A land where he belonged no more than any of the other tourists that enjoyed the trip with him, but left him behind to return to their final destination.
Return to a destination. Paradoxical yet completely appropriate way to describe the arc described on their imaginary life maps.