Enough with the abstraction and vague prose. I’m sitting comfortably at the kitchen table, fully decompressed from two and a half weeks of travel, fluctuating somewhere between complete contented enlightenment and red-line panic attack.
I use travel as an crutch to support my broken view on my adult life. After several discussions with a person very close to me, I waver on the edge of completely swallowing the red pill and willingly falling down the rabbit hole (so to say). The question becomes whether I am willing to accept a certain level of detachment from ordinary life (insomuch as a 9-5 job, house in the suburbs and a wife that I inevitably cheat on). I must admit some regularity (and steady income) would be welcome, but the American Dream tends to sicken me.
Recently an acquaintance ask if I was ready to “settle down”. After a few moments of contemplation, I shook my head in disagreement and responded, “No, I hope I never do.” When asked why, I asserted that settling down implies a certain level of acceptance that I “settled” for something less. Actively seeking a depressing state such as that isn’t appealing at all.