I have itchy feet from running. Running all the time. Thirty years of running. Away from myself mainly. Truths are hard to face though sometimes, especially when you don't like what you find.
On my thirtieth birthday, I stood in a room full of people. Stood on the edge looking in. It seemed as though I'd made it through the storm. Well, many storms to be fair and there I was, still alive and no longer just hanging on.
Somewhere in the haze of the previous seven months, I'd built a ship for myself. True, it was a raggedy old thing, but it was mine and it was solid. I'd grown so tired of losing grip on rafts built by other people. Rafts that would crumble away and leave me stranded, drowning in my own pitiful despair.
Thirty years, thirty god damn years. I'd broken my heart a thousand times over that vast expanse and each wound had always reminded me of another. Like running through a hall of mirrors, I would lurch from one embrace to another, only to find myself, over and over and over again. But I vowed no more. I knew I couldn't continue like that, I couldn't start this decade, this new chapter, chasing after the same. It was time, it was finally time, to let go of my illusions. To learn to let go.
Cutting ties like vines that wrapped around my lungs, suffocating me. Releasing myself from the grip I had so painfully been ensnared in for years, purely through my own hapless wondering. I had become molten lava, I had become caustic, I had become afraid. Endlessly melting under pressure. Combusting in insecurity. I'd gotten lost, because I could not face myself and my fear of losing grip had trapped me. But no more, I said, as I hacked away. No more.
For a long time I was shattered glass. Jagged, fragile, useless. Yet it seems my time of transformation has come. Because it had to. Because it needed to. Because finally, I am no longer afraid. Of course I can't deny that the pain of my past still cuts like a knife at times and those memories still haunt my dreams upon occasion, but once again I am filled with fire, burning brightly, burning to ashes, burning alone.
Now I have set sail for new adventures, embracing the oncoming waves attempting to envelope me along the way. At night, the flickers of light from my burning flames help guide me through every dark and murky stretch, until the sun makes its return come morning, to reprise its role. But be under no illusion, I'm no longer adrift, in search of home. No, now I am a fearless wanderer, purposely pursuing an endless course of exploration, purely for the beauty of the great unknown.
This is my turning point. This is thirty.