Reading travel journals this morning after a decade in one place has me doubting my ability to distill wisdom from experience.
Then and now.
Constant traveling taught me that going places got me nowhere—wherever I went, there I was—and ten years in the same state has me feeling stuck.
I remind myself that life is a journey, not a destination, and my subconscious coughs up something my brother said: life is sexually transmitted and always fatal.
Then I tell myself it’s just a bad morning—nothing new for November—and keep my cool about not keeping my cool.
My brother was, apparently, paraphrasing Neil Gaiman. He might even have told me that at the time, but if so, I’d forgotten.
© Copyright 2020 by Jim Latham