Am I a Writer or a Traveler, or Both?
I was thinking about this the other day. (Yes, thinking, the dark evil antithesis to happiness)
It was in the grips of a benign sunny afternoon, balmy skies perched above the visible world I knew, that I decided to venture into intimations of thought.
Could I enjoy traveling without writing?
I’m not so sure.
I have been a traveler for far longer than a writer. I have traveled since early adolescence; the moment I had my first bicycle, the world became one big place to explore and get lost. This visceral proclivity to adventure and explore lands both foreign and new has always been there. Once it unleashed itself on me and the world, once the waters in the dam began to flow, there was no turning back.
From that first bicycle as a child to that first car as a teenager to the unbeknownst freedom that came from becoming an adult — the yearning to leave home and explore the world runs deep within my roots.
The mindset to travel is incurably deep. I don’t think I could live without the prospect of exploration, of being in constant motion — either physically or figuratively. The journey is my happiness, my…
