Musa Kabwere posted: " There's no other place to be. The world is large enough for roaming, for being a wandering hermit, for being a human with no place to call home –not necessarily a refugee though. But time to time, you get an urge of going somewhere else you've never be, "
There's no other place to be. The world is large enough for roaming, for being a wandering hermit, for being a human with no place to call home –not necessarily a refugee though. But time to time, you get an urge of going somewhere else you've never be, some other place where everything will be behind you, some other side of an imaginary paradise. And sometimes you succeed crossing the other side and for a while things are going to be different, different like you wanted them to be.
Unfortunately, the other, the illusioned paradise lasts not forever.
The other place is a place just like the place you are running away from. It's always interesting how things are the same and how they are different. It's more interesting how the more different things are the more the same they are. The places, the people, the faces, smiles, and cries; two sides same coin, same sky but night and day. And the chase for the greener lawn amounts to nearly nothing we thought it could be.
There's a thrill in new things and new places and new people. Look, you feel the sun a different way in a new place. You hear different timbres of laughter in new people. And you feel the novelty in new things. You go high in those moments, higher than you always go. Then you go under, sinking into the same lows you've always sank on. And the fall from the current high sinks to the deepest bottom- the disappointment hits harder.
It's just a way of seeing things. You can feel the sun a different way wherever you are. You can hear a different tone of the laughter in the same person. You can see the novelty in the same four walls you've spent all your life in. it's the same thing.
East west home is best; unarguable and arguable to an extent. But home, where you call home, is where you come back to when everywhere has lost the novelty you seek. And home, with all its boredom remains the place you'll want to be forever. Home isn't the literal home. It is the literal home and more. It is where you stay with what you are used to, taking it all even when you feel there's a place better for you, even when the illusion of a greener lawn calls badly.
The point is neither the far away country nor the new kissable lips rummaging your old lips. The thrill lasts a while and you remain with yourself forever. It's not the thrill that matters. It's you, the seeker of the thrill. Once the new thrill is over, you'll want to board the next bus on the way to another thrill, and the next ship, and the next plane. At the end you come back to the place you started, the place where we all come back to when we've had a portion of the vanities and we can't chase more.
The other side is better. This side is better. The other person is better. This person is better. When the focus is in the wrong aspect, nothing is better, no one is better, every life is not better. And when it's in the correct aspect, everything –far from bearable, is better because that is how it is.
The "other" promises much than there is to gain. And it offers lesser than we thought we could gain. And everything is the same because we look at them in the same way. the end is the same; realizing the vanities are endless and that real thrill is in the same everything we get ourselves used to.
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