Returning Home

It occurred to me that I have a real, serious problem 

with jet-setting across the world. 

I’ve fallen in love with watching flight prices more than I have loved one person.

The moment I see a flight for a cheap price, I’ll book it. 

I don’t care where it is to

or who I will be there to see, but I book it because I want to 

get away. 


I used to book flights after a break up.

I thought that maybe if I hopped a plane, 

landed somewhere warm and without cell service, 

I would no longer think about my ex.

It always worked. 


But now, the more often I do this, 

and the less break ups I go through, 

I wonder if I book flights because there are other 

demons of mine I’m unwilling to face

or if I enjoy the process of getting lost in another city, 

just so I can find myself over and over again. 


I dream about living around the world, 

yet I find ways to tie myself to this city and then

yield an ungodly amount of time out of the country. 

I dream about exploring places I haven’t seen

and re-exploring places I’ve been with friends I made along the way

but I still tell my new friends that I’m from here. 


And everytime I return home, I realize how good it feels to 

be home. 

At least for a brief amount of time. 

And so all of this travel around the world has still brought me back

to the same dead city

and as I get older, I’ve discovered

that this same dead city is the city 

that still carries my heart each time I fly somewhere new.

I’m not sure if it will ever let my heart go

because I find myself still returning home.


This piece has been published on Thought Catalog. You can view the published version here


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