my nomad heart

  

Today I want to be back on the other side of the world. Where cobblestone streets, canals, buses, bicycles, and beauty abound. I long to be back in the heart of Amsterdam, sharing stories over coffee with strangers in a hostel of dreamers and nomads. Backpacks towering over dusty faces of adventurers with worn soles and weathered souls and hearts open like maps to the stars, because they caught a glimpse of something about being human that has them chasing cities like a dog chases cars. 

It’s a dangerous game of risk and desire and never looking back and your heart might get burned along the way, but that’s just the price of being free. Of leaning into mystery. Of being fully known only in moments among strangers over something that is shared and spending the wandering days feeling misunderstood. And maybe we are all hopeless wanderers. 

And maybe a handful of us find home in the eyes of strangers traveling the same weary road more than we find home in a set of digits affixed to the post of a permanent structure on a paved road between fences.

Wanderlust is a light that never goes out. 

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