To travel is to fall for something new, but my brain is caught on what remains the same. It started in Los Angeles, with a smile that whispered someone else’s name. You see, I picked out pieces of my life and folded them into the hands of strangers. I pressed precious memories into mountain trails, and plucked nostalgia from exotic market stalls.
I thought the sky would look different somehow, yet as the sun sets upon the tops of ancient stone temples my heart skips on the same hues. And laughter, floating up from the streets of Kalaw, sounds just as sweet spilling out of lips that my eyes have never read.
To travel is to run towards a different you, but I have been dragging myself around. Perhaps it was strange to think that this trip would be an acquisition of a new me. And so I struggle with the uncertainty that to carve out a space of solace in familiarity might be the antithesis of travel or the beauty of it.