The Biscuit Barrel

Silliness, or a deep metaphor for modern angst?

Of nesting doubts

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I’m not really sure I can sing the blues. I’m not even sure I can honestly say I’ve got the blues, but one thing is certain is that the blues probably has me tightly in it’s melancholy grip. A wicked vice of fate has set to work upon my stomach, and other connected innards, causing me to miss sleep in the deepest night, already lit by the early nordic sun that seems to happen at this time of year.

The intrepid explorer life seems only charming when you have something to run away from, when you want to escape monotony and the repetition of a daily job that drains the soul and that hurts you with wanderlust for things you aren’t seeing while glued to a chair by the force of society and dependency. Truly, I still feel that no fate can be worst than that slow and petty death that I could live every day. But life moves just the same even when you are charmed by far off vistas of mountains approaching, or by a small bar in a strange place that you instantly feel at home in.

What happens when you find an anchor you love dragging, what happens when it keeps you coming back, addicted to touch and smell, and the magic of green eyes glinting lively at you in the sunlight, filled with emotion and joy. Wanderlust turns on you, nagging you in a way that tears apart your gut. Sit still long enough and you feel it more. Be away long enough from the joy of eyes that feel like home and all of a sudden it seems pointless. The far away vistas, and the feeling of adventure you get in your bones when it’s just you and a camera, heading to strange new places, waiting to explore new sights with new people isn’t as fulfilling when it’s taking you farther away from what you love.

But then again, none have the same value without each other. Staying still for the sake of it, just so you don’t go away isn’t deeply fulfilling. Being able to leave without something to look back on feels like inertia without something to always bring you back.

Ignore the deep vice squeezing your stomach until it’s the size of a pea when you leave. Think of it as a way to appreciate when you leave behind, confirming it’s worth and deep value.

Ignore the wanderlust at the back of your mind, the call of the road that seems to create a constant static background to your thoughts, the building anxiety as you sit there enjoying something that far away lands will never be able to compete with.

 

Written by CyberFaust

Aprilie 28, 2014 la 7:53 pm

Postat in Random ramblings

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