Traveling is dope. Someone once told me there is no better way to spend your money. I'm sure there are other, better things to spend money on like "sex" and "cars" and "clothes," but, nevertheless, you get the point. There's nothing you can do to mimic the same feeling of seeing new places because it requires you to leave your bed, you piece of shit. No amount of retweets or reblogs or right swipes can fill that void.
I just spent two weeks out on the west coast because living in Indianapolis is not a glamorous as it sounds. I went out every single day. I got hella matches on Tinder because west coast women respect problematic writers more than midwest women. I dropped an irresponsible amount of money at a strip club. I stumbled into a bar playing trap remixes of Spooky Black songs with anime visuals on the wall. I ran into Damian Lillard and got recognized off Four Pins in Machus (shout out to name-dropping lmao).
In theory, I could do all these things at home—save for the Machus encounter and the crazy specific bar—but being away made it better. We crave these momentary escapes from normalcy because they remind us there's something more out there than the status quo, which is equal parts fulfilling and soul-crushing. These blips give us an inclination of meaning. They allow us to forget the future and the past and live in the present. You get lost in the elation. All we want in life is to feel like we matter.
But then the crash comes. It always does. It leaves you feeling anxious. Nothing lasts forever. There must be a return to usualness. You'll no longer be able to shirk responsibilities. You'll no longer acquire all your meals by eating out or rely on someone else to clean your room (unless you still live with your parents) or bank on an someone else driving you around (unless you're a selfish dickhead). Fuck.
Now, I'm sitting on a red-eye home trying to write. I'm tired and the woman sitting next to me is so beautiful it's upsetting. The flight attendant almost spilled water all over my MacBook. Two rows in front of me there is a baby crying and its parents are doing nothing to calm it down. The in-flight WiFi keeps bugging and there isn't a good movie playing. Just typing this makes me feel restless.
I can't concentrate and all I want to do is get back to my own bed and sleep forever. Yet, as much as I want to be off this fucking metal bird, part of my brain is hoping it never ends. Because then I'll have to come to terms with the fact that the trip is finally, officially over. Once the plane lands and you walk outside and request an Uber, it all becomes a memory.
I guess that's why travel is so special. Even though it's over, it's never really over. You can hop on a plane or get in a car or board a train anytime you want and get away. The government hasn’t taken that away from us yet *extremely Banksy voice*. So, as I stumble into my house and flop down on my bed, I pass out reassured because although my suitcases are empty now, they won't be forever.
Alex Hancock is a writer living in the future so the present is his past, but really he's in Indianapolis. Follow his problematic Twitter here.
