She had dreamt of far away exotic locations since her maiden voyage into her adult years. Colorful opportunities the shelter of home had denied her, a gloss she had longed to entertain. The pallet of languages and foreign faces was so appealing, that everything else that fell around her, the day to day doings and responsibilities, were just too beige to hold her concentration. Friendships became typical and family made her feel restrained. She chose to leave.
When she stepped onto new soil, her heart felt a sense of indulgence that made her feel giddy. She visited overwhelming markets and museums, cathedrals and melancholy cemeteries. She walked down buckled streets and empty stretches of cold grey sand. She sailed to islands of translucent blue swells and jungles thick with distant creatures she thought impossible. For 2 years, she pushed her way through the upper class pedigrees of dazzling cities, and the tangled web of third world slums. Time began to move slower than her feet and a cloud of nostalgia, which had always been there filled with lead weight and a slow presence.
Her neck tensed as the array of mattresses she slept on were no longer able to cushion around the alcove of her body. Transient relationships had no grip and she began to hold tight to the letters from home.
Home. Home. She found herself looking over gloomy spaces to the east, always to the east. As she pushed through her travels she began to miss the familiar smells of the pacific air and the sound of the birds as the surreal Dali skies dropped at dusk. The easy roads that extended like veins, through the rolling hills south of her home.
Reliable ears that longed to hear even the most mundane daily news she had to share. The world had given her a sample of distant pastures and priceless experiences, but it had also taught her that there is no place quite like the habitual comforts of home. So until she again felt the urge to stretch her legs beyond the coast of her birth, she would head east. She would head home.