We are all so obliviously attached to routine. Same places, same people, same experiences, over and over and over again until we get sick of it, to the point of madness. Then we wake up one morning and tell ourselves: “Y’know what? Let’s go out and get ourselves lost today.” So you dress up, pack up and go forth without any care, because what happens, happens.
And it does happen.
And you’re suddenly thrown into a whirlwind of things, of new places, new people, new experiences, the kind you’ve never expected but still welcome into your life anyway. It’s like free falling off a cliff into the cold waters of the sea. Everything is so fast, scary but exhilirating nonetheless. And for a moment, you feel like you’re flying.
That is, until you hit the water head first.
And then the next thing you know you’re already sinking.
What goes up must come down, it’s simple physics. And you find yourself right back where you started. You revert back into a routine. Sure, it might be in a different place with different people and a different experience but it’s the same situation as before. And we do this because we’re bored, because we’re lazy, because it feels safer, because we know it’ll drive us nuts sooner or later and we’ll just swim our way up and break through the water’s surface only to find ourselves climbing up that same fucking cliff just so we can jump off it again and again and again. Which, ironically, becomes sort of a routine when you look at the bigger picture.
So while you set off to find an even bigger cliff to climb (just to prove that you have bigger balls than me). Being the lazy bum that I am, I’ll probably resign myself to drifting around in the sea for a few years or so and maybe befriend a dolphin or a whale or something before I decide to go free falling again.