Wanderlust

I’ve wanted to see America for a long time now. Our history, albeit brief, is still colorful and sensuous. I long to feel it in the lands around me. However, the most I ever seem to manage are little blips across the map; nothing ever substantial, nothing that could leave a deep impression. Vermont is the only place away from home that has managed to nestle it’s way into my heart. Summer after summer I spend there, each time glimpsing pieces of myself, each time falling more in love with the landscape and the earth.

Yet there is so much more out there that I wish to see.

That is why, starting Wednesday, April 30th, 2008… I will finally get to experience a little more.

My wanderlust has been settling in slowly, like maple syrup across tree bark. I received a flash of freedom here, a glimpse of going away there, but now that wanderlust has settled in for good, I am overwhelmed with the desire to leave. It is more than merely an impulse to get out of Dodge (or in this case, Sturbridge, Massachusetts). What I really need is to experience another place. I don’t mean I need a vacation, or to go to a day spa – what I need is to follow the curves of the land, and sift my fingers through the soil.

I need to believe that there is something beyond the everyday.

To believe in more than I currently do, for the last few years have been a painful crawling descent into disillusionment.

Melodramatic? Perhaps. Morbid? A bit. Nevertheless, it is true. Due to some conglomeration of my excessive anxiety, unwavering trust, hopeful naivete, and over-analytical nature… I have fallen apart. The sum of my parts has resulted in a breakdown of all the pieces. I care too much, I feel too acutely, I try too hard, I hurt too deeply, and it all results in the slow loss of Self, and eventually… disillusionment.

So there I was, disillusioned and weary, wondering what step to take next. Suicide was an option, but I have not the stomach for blood and gore…and lack the vanity to complete the act. Complacency was considered, but I would rather the slow death of having my cells burned off one by one. Insanity was brushed upon (even visited briefly) but was found to be an inadequate harbor for my pain.

I strongly believe that when the soul is weak, and the heart disillusioned, that great changes are needed in order to thrive. Great changes are not easy; in fact, they are terrifying, and often appear impossible. However, all great change requires is imagination, a surge of strength, and that tiny voice inside your head that peeps “fuck it”. Neither the strength (nor the voice) even need to be sincere – they can be a completely bullshit effort at appearing strong and fucking it. As long as they fulfill the requirement of making a change, then they have served their purpose, and true strength will eventually be derived by this. The change within may come slower than the tangible changes around you, but at least the wheels have been set in motion.

My big “fuck it” moment never really happened. Instead, there appeared to be an excessive amount of “what the fuck?” moments that eventually led to a breakdown.

Whatever works.

What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m leaving in three days to see the country. Who knows how long I’ll last. Perhaps I’ll make it a solid week, and then come running back home to Pugsly’s lopsided grin and ridiculously lame bark. Or perhaps I’ll make it a couple months, as planned, and get to meet new people and alter a few of my skewed perceptions on the world. Then there is that fancy possibility that I shall never return, and my heart will carve out a home in a piece of a mountain somewhere, where I will live off the land and write epic-worthy poetry.

Or live in a decrepit trailer with a cowboy who calls me “twinkie,” pisses on the pink flamingos in the yard, and passes out drunk while making love.

Whatever works.