1. Your job becomes the most miserable thing you’ve ever done
Especially if you work a routine, mundane job- like a 9-5. When you know a place like this exists, it makes handing food out of a window or being stuck in an office with minimal sunlight a new version of hell on earth.
2. Your eyes will be opened to an overwhelming amount of diversity and living
Watching the sunset isn’t just “pretty” anymore. You’ll think about how you journeyed, went there and made it back. You’ll think about what’s important to you. You'll wonder about earth, all the stars, and the order of creation and weep as the sun sets on your day and rises on someone else, perhaps a place where you once were.
3. You will make a best friend, and/or meet a potential love, that is now far away
Refer back to the previous point. You’ll think about these people often, especially when your side of earth turns its back on the sun. It's sad and beautiful all at once.
4. The percentage of those who you can relate to will drop dramatically
This also makes it hard to date. Your interests and thoughts become broad, while those who are untraveled are within boundaries (though, not all the time). Your ideas become brighter and more extraordinary as your worry over minuscule things diminish.
5. You’re constantly thinking about ways you can travel and make a respectable living at the same time
This is where you appear to be aloof and introverted all time- your mind is elsewhere than the beige enclosed room with no windows you’re sitting in. Meanwhile, your peers, who drank the local koolaid, discuss the only things they know of over and over again to a point where there is no more benefit or bettering of oneself in that particular subject.
Summary: If you don’t travel, you will be content with where you are, better at your job, average, and potentially more successful in finding love.
Ignorance is bliss and knowledge is wonderfully heartbreaking.
Pick your poison.
He worked at a laundromat in Greenpoint, New York City.
She fought against his care for the longest time.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”
When he closed the door, he would watch people’s clothes swirl and splash against the walls- just like she used to.
And, when she had enough, she’d cuss.
“Beep, beep, beeeep.” The clothes were done. He pulled them out and examined them before switching them over.
Carefully, he made sure the tubes in her side were clean and dry.
The old machine shook from working hard on all numerous rounds of clothes.
She was weak. He could feel her tremble as he gently ran a towel over her arms.
“I love you so much.”
She was his life and he found it a priority to wash her and dry her.
And now, the laundromat is the closest he can get to her.
She was writing under a candle light at bar located in the basement of an inactive school. She had never felt so content- almost to the point of tears. Everything was okay, and “okay” was exceptional coming from her previous journeys.
She’s sitting at a dimly lit, hidden corner table while drinking moonshine and writing about how you can’t see the mountains when it snows. Something about this concept struck her, so she was writing to decipher its substance: Loneliness? Mystery? The unknown?
Truth be told, she wasn’t sitting in this bar drinking moonshine (for the first time) for no reason. She was there to listen to someone specific play guitar and sing while she wrote. His voice reminded her of the mountains; pronounced and inviting.
A woman, about the same age, came and sat down with her. They both shared their infatuation and awe over the singer before the woman revealed that they had been together for a while now.
The conversation fell silent.
The singer’s voice now sounded distant and melancholy- and so became the mountains.
“What are you writing about?”
“How I can’t see the mountains when it snows.”