travel-prose

The girl with the wanderlust stare weaved her way into my heart and out again. But she left a tiny thread sewn to my hand so I would always be able to find her amongst the tapestry of her journey.
—  The landscape was covered in her footprints, leading to places I dared not tread.

Wanderlust

I don’t want to stay here, surrounded by the streets and parks I know.
I want to discover new things, I want to travel. I want to drink a cafe au lait in a petite Parisian Café, I want to ride on a bike through the streets of Amsterdam, I want to get inspired by the art in New York, I want to throw colorful powder into the air in India…
I want to connect with the unknown and feel free. I want to connect with the ancient and the new; visit century old temples and Modern art museums. Oh, there are so many things out there I’d like to see, so many moments I’d like to participate in. I know that I will never be able to see them all but I want to catch at least a glimpse of the world. This wanderlust is what keeps me going, this desire to jump up right now and just get into the car or catch the next possible flight to go somewhere else, somewhere new and exciting, somewhere where you can escape from your mundane routines.

maybe someday we’d meet in a place neither of us is familiar with. i imagine my eyes meeting yours for the very first time, and i imagine seeing in them how, like me, you are lost, too. maybe we’d sit on the grass; somewhere far away from our confusion. i imagine listening to your stories which, like you, were once strangers to me, and i imagine myself thinking maybe getting lost in a strange place is not bad at all–not when i’m with someone like you. i imagine us laughing over stories which led us to this place, and i imagine knowing for sure that this is exactly how everything is supposed to be. i imagine my walls coming down; my doors opening again. i imagine looking at you as a new chapter, as a new beginning, and i imagine you proving me right. please prove me right.
—  i.v.c., For New People
I will travel the world with you.
Or just travel the country.
Or at least travel the distance
between your bottom lip
land your ear,
and the valleys between
each of your fingers.
I will explore the surface
of your torso
and the depths of your mind.
I will study the curvature
of your jaw
and learn the history
of your eyes.
I will completely immerse myself
in your voice and your laughter
until I am no longer a tourist.
And then - only then,
we can travel the world.
Youth in Greece

Why are we all so caught up in our own self love.

Get real,

Get out.

Experience life on the back of a motorbike.

Not post pictures of your life.

Reality has pain.

But the machine doesn’t allow it anymore.

White teeth,

Fake smiles,

showing the perfect life.

Where did the magic go?

Crooked teeth,

Fairy feet,

Crazy curls,

Dirty knees.

What happened to being free?

Why can’t we all go back to Greece?

Nay, its polli kalla.

Bare feet.

Sandy sun.

Winding roads.

Too much love.

Too much rum.

We are creating tents in the heathers air.

-Morgan Hannah Pettersson-

Sitting in a bus at 2am, I have to wonder. I have to wonder what all these people, riding through the night beside me, have in common. They’re all strangers. Strangers that I’ve laughed with and spoken to, but strangers all the same. Still we all sit here, traveling with the same destination in mind, and I’m pondering how we all ended up here, in the same turbulant bus, on the same dark night
—  AOAM

lately, the air around here has been tasting stale, baby my head’s a little sore and my legs feel useless so

let’s maybe walk all the way to a different state

maybe vermont for the mountains or california for the beach or, hell, new york because we always thought to dream big and live big

let’s maybe find a place where my hands don’t shake and my eyes want to look at something other than my phone

let’s find a place where tomorrow’s less black clouds and more hazy smiles let’s go somewhere where the air tastes like sun and your laugh sounds like music

let’s walk all the way to summer and let’s drink up the way tap water makes me feel as loose as rum let me run my fingers through my hair without them getting caught in the snarls of my mind i want to look into your eyes and get them confused with the dreamy sky, the rich dark earth, the stems of the wilting flowers my mother cuts off every morning

take me somewhere where i’m for one minute not myself and i promise you, when we come back, i’ll be a better me than ever

so please, let’s go anywhere away from here

The Way Life Should Be Lived

Sitting on the beach.

Dreaming about what could be.

Waves are crashing.

Seagulls are strutting.

Hair smelling like honey.

Turning golden brown in the sun.

No one in sight for miles.

A beach to myself.

An island in the distance.

A place where penguins magically live.

Creatures of the sea.

Swirl beneath the surface.

Mermaids with legs twirl on the edge between light and wet.

The Way Life Should be Lived.

-Morgan Hannah Pettersson-

The deep blue stretched out into infinity,
My unanswered questions.
Silky clouds nestled aimlessly in the middle of nowhere,
Pure serendipity.

The white fluffiness whisked by,
And I started to see a stretch of yellow appear.

The plane swirled to the right as
Toy buildings came clear into view and
Cars moving as fast as people and
People as invisible as specks of dust.

How minuscule this world can be.
How trivial life is.
Do I matter?

Descent.
Then, I was mortal again.

After perhaps the most gut-wrenching heartbreak I had ever experienced, I traveled. I had seen very little of the world, and I admired it casually, but it was this trip that nurtured a seed of passion in me.

I sat atop a hill in Pennsylvania, in grass greener than I had ever seen; this is the way my mind remembers it. Perhaps it was not so grand. But what matters is that it felt like the world revealed itself to me. The rows of hills unfolded before me like those paper fans we made in grade school. They seemed not to end.

I cried on that hill. I took photos and wept so quietly, because the silence of the earth was the object of my affection, and I only desired to watch it breathe.
—  l.s.: Excerpt from a short autobiography (that our professor had us write in class)
2

I want to spend a summer losing myself in a European city again. I long to walk streets with unfamiliar faces looking back at me. I want to discover what it’s like to be completely alone and find solace in that. I want to wake up in a bed with a girl next to me that I’ll never see again. I want to be carefree with my heart and soul without the fear of being trampled upon. I want to slide through smoky, dark clubs unnoticed. I want to share a drink with someone and talk about life in the light of day. I want to wade through the crowds until that homesick feeling calls me back.

sitting here on highway 49
the other side of the border
holds the life i left behind
with an accent too thick to comprehend
i found my voice in music
singing melodies of a home once had
and a love nearly chased across the continent
the road is full of uncertainty
as well as adventure
for wanderlust, there is no cure
2,000 miles to go
but my eyes wont stay open
my mind keeps a roamin
                 and hopin…
to be reunited with kin

while crossing over
they searched me high and low
and then pulled over by popo
he said this aint a race
i said sir im just tryna get home
can you give a girl a break?
so i wake up at a truck stop
boil up some rice
rain rinses the dirt right off my back
feels kinda nice
dreads blow in the wind
rock music fades out
replaced by songs of trucks and beer
guess im in hick town now
scenery changes yet again
from deserts to corn fields
temptation to pull over
and forage up a meal
here i am, on the road again…

Shuttered Travel Agency

special. you know how it is when you get those words printed in the paper that you’re going to get married and it’s always gotta be on a saturday because who has time to do this any time else.

but this was long after that. on a saturday where shit never seems to happen. together treatment, whatever, listening to the fan’s symphonic white noise.

remembering the hotspots, nightplaces jolting with capitalist music printed in interior vacations or something.

books.

housewarming people, christmas plates. paying for it with all those patients switching. all the shots and stitches and taps.

his complex continues. silent retardation genuinely sees nooooooowwwwwww we’re getting somewhere.

come in and get it.

coffee place around the voice clock.

the they these they and oi! all-so them away want the roommate.

excited wistful inclusive overdubbed interviews.

slimy massive time on a single-come camera.

up-ass you always diddled. what now? fills, suggesting for more deals. secks. ahem.

got to go to a better minnesotan peer. the sleep conscious sweater conversation conspiracy absolutely overwhelms the second camera with the playfully lascivious think tank.

time for one out street, far behind, making faces and friending itself.

hard?

well, still. the secret embrace of blahblah mcgee from early, her hard looks appear on the embarrassed screen’s echelons. naked problem, bedroom laughing,

breakfast out of sight. naked. like, hella nacked.

put you toward some accordingly necessary vacation in the hospital. sees that she swept places, sly keyboard pancakes secretly fateful coffee.

one of the mongolian stands to the placemat sane. what? still matter. well other, they hours, interview, facing sudden information from a space launch neighbors death news.