To wander is to feel alive, to be in a constant state of discovery, to light up when you experience something new. It’s a certain kind of addiction to be in this state, to be an interloper. To experience all the wonder and joy and none of the pain that attachment brings. To travel is to take in and learn about the culture and history of a place. But can you really learn without experiencing the pain yourself? Can you really feel what you have not experienced?
To be weighed down by responsibilities not of your choosing, those that were chosen long before you were ever born. To be a wanderer is to fall in love, over and over again, and to feel deeply with each bittersweet goodbye—but never to feel the deep agony, the complicated sorrow and helplessness that being tethered to a place often brings. For the wanderer, once the initial infatuation has faded, you can simply leave. When you are tethered to a place you do not have the power to leave—to control your destiny and to be relegated to an infernal sameness as the backdrop of your life.
But isn’t it all perspective? Might that place you have been running from be a comfort, a constant, a saving grace providing shelter from the whims of the world?