One day a short while ago I caught myself thinking about travelling. What came out was something that vaguely resembles a poem (but would never really classify as one, of course).
No idea why I wrote it, it just sort of happened.
Aren’t we all travellers?
Travelling through life, through years,
as our precious possessions.
Just like we would, when going somewhere new
and making stops along the way
to grasp the beauty that lies ahead.
But why is it easier to notice as an outsider
and to value what is out of our reach?
To marvel at something
we would only take for granted
if we were exposed to it every day?
It need not be the places that are travelled.
Travel could be anywhere, every day.
But if only it was as easy
to remember to notice and wonder
without the feeling of being on the way.