I often find myself ruminating on the paradox of travel. The bliss and excitement and deep, heavy comfort of being someplace else. Of being a momentary visitor, floating in the looming and intoxicating currents of impermanence. All with the eventual longing for the familiar place from which I sought to leave. It mostly doesn’t button up nicely, travel. There are no tidy resolutions at the end of journeys. It is truer, purer, and better like this.