Rhytiphobia
"One belongs to New York instantly; one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years."
I have my own place, a really good job, a tremendous amount of pecuniary debt, and an irrefutable vagabond nature that doesn't respond to excuses like logic and finance. I love definitions; I'm transfixed by the idea that an answer to a question can be contained within a word. I've can't help but feel that this is possible with people, with places. If you know me, you've probably picked up on my penchant for distant places. They're like a sickness, the way they infect me, with symptoms of Oikophobia, anxiety, deliriousness... It's not a need to escape, as much as a desire to rove and ramble without restraint. It begins as a sort of anchoring weight pitched in my stomach upon a glance at a picture framed by a rainy setting, or brought on by the cadence of foreign dialogue spoken by a stranger on the street, or a new experiences that feel familiar …Next thing I know, I'm willing to toss it all away and couch hop from state to state till I hit the Atlantic ocean. This month it's been New York, and if you ask me again in a week, I might say the France. But one thing is for certain, time is passing and my ambition is building. I have days when I wake up and feel as though the walls might burst from the strain of containing me. In actual tense, my room grows smaller by the day from piles of books and movies which threaten to tidal wave over, burying me until I sink into a place where my soul is truly freer than my body could ever hope to be. I'm tired of searching within my reach for the things that can only be obtained after branching out. It's funny, although I don't really need much, it's as though I always need more.
I have my own place, a really good job, a tremendous amount of pecuniary debt, and an irrefutable vagabond nature that doesn't respond to excuses like logic and finance. I love definitions; I'm transfixed by the idea that an answer to a question can be contained within a word. I've can't help but feel that this is possible with people, with places. If you know me, you've probably picked up on my penchant for distant places. They're like a sickness, the way they infect me, with symptoms of Oikophobia, anxiety, deliriousness... It's not a need to escape, as much as a desire to rove and ramble without restraint. It begins as a sort of anchoring weight pitched in my stomach upon a glance at a picture framed by a rainy setting, or brought on by the cadence of foreign dialogue spoken by a stranger on the street, or a new experiences that feel familiar …Next thing I know, I'm willing to toss it all away and couch hop from state to state till I hit the Atlantic ocean. This month it's been New York, and if you ask me again in a week, I might say the France. But one thing is for certain, time is passing and my ambition is building. I have days when I wake up and feel as though the walls might burst from the strain of containing me. In actual tense, my room grows smaller by the day from piles of books and movies which threaten to tidal wave over, burying me until I sink into a place where my soul is truly freer than my body could ever hope to be. I'm tired of searching within my reach for the things that can only be obtained after branching out. It's funny, although I don't really need much, it's as though I always need more.