I love to travel. Not an uncommon admission, I grant you, as few fail to get excited about visiting climes new. And I share in this buzz too, but in this instance, I'm referring to the act of travelling itself. When the packing is done, the taxi is loaded, and I'm off on my way to the airport, I'm transformed. Mundane concerns melt away and I feel... well... I just feel. Self-identity seems absent, or at least, greatly diminished. Maybe, just maybe...[wait for it... an original thought coming up, at least original to me]... too well-honed a sense of who we are is an obstacle to self-fulfillment?
I've found leaving my self behind is the most liberating feeling. All the self-labelling that personal identity consists of, is gone. All the rules I impose on myself take a back step. I'm not such an such a person with such and such beliefs, I'm more fluid, more understanding, more tolerant perhaps. A better person?
Maybe there's an object lesson here in how best to be, or at least, how to aspire to be. The problem is though, the return journey. I have an inkling now of why I get depressed on arriving home. These days I want the outward bound journey to last forever.