Friday, 28 February 2014
It's funny how, now I don't have to write to deadline, it takes little more than fleeting thoughts and feelings to make me put theoretical pen to paper.
We're constantly forced into different categories for a variety of reasons, as the gradual erosion of looming responsibilities becomes too big to ignore.
However on a journey, the pigeonholing is far more literal. Every corridor we get sent down is constrictive and full of people all accepting the fact that there's nothing they can do about the next few hours of their respective lives.
We go from trains to cars to planes to taxis to buses, all with one hope. That the end of the journey will represent a glorious, luxurious pay off, and somehow the feeling I get never fails to take my breath away.
I'm instantly filled with a sense of complete forgetfulness of the entire jaunt. I don't think once about the times when I wished I was somewhere comfortable and quiet. It's like Final Fantasy VII when you finally escape from Midgar and the world stretches out in front of you, more vast than you really know what to do with.
We're also filled with an urge to do all the things that we know we shouldn't do and actively should discourage others from. We jump on the bed, make loads of noise, leave clothes strewn around and play loud music.
For however many hours we've had to be in a certain place for a certain time, no breaks and no buts. Now nothing seems driven by schedule or reason, nothing really matters for that brief second that the light switches on, as the spare key is lodged Excalibur like in its receptacle.
There's only one thing that could make this feeling more complete, but then the best part of going away is always coming home to embrace that which you longed for in absence.
These adventures keep getting crazier.
The journeys keep getting longer.
We're only bound by ourselves.
You'd do well to remember that, we all would.
Speak soon, take care