A short conversation with a colleague, had made me mention my decision for Vancouver to be my last stop in relentlessly pursuing anything in the world. Having called myself a wanderer, a nomad who had dreams of living in one place after the other, the reality of planting seed in one had finally caught me in. The reality of living had chased after me and had won.
Vancouver, I knew, was going to be a pit stop. I had other places to see and live in, I would always tell myself. Life was never long enough to not ever want to be able to drive to the nicest of beaches or stare at the nicest of sunsets. My life’s mission, and so it seemed, was a quest, never ending, for the nicest of anything which neither I could ever explain. Otherwise, it seemed like an endless escape from that of which opposes the nicest.
I never liked the idea of permanent. In a permanent state, forceful submission to judgment and criticism is required. In a permanent state, people stare deep into your fearful soul while slicing open your fragile heart. Why I relate the permanent state to deep hurt is exactly why I do not like it. My spirit was fickle. Not to mention, vulnerable. And thus, it was never prepared to never think that elsewhere is better.
Then my spirit was trapped. And in it came the hurt and the pain that permanency has been known for. It struggled and it almost fled. But it died before it could ever do. It died a painful death. Like a crook gunned down by its prosecutor. On the ground sprawled, bleeding until it never could. Deserving of its punishment but pitiful and fragile nonetheless.
My spirit had died to permanent. It had forgotten the blissfulness of running away from a tepid mindset and seek that of which is passionate. My spirit had sought and gained freedom and was forced to be still. My spirit had stop thinking for its own, something that it thought it would never do. In death, it became weaker yet stronger, yet still. And while so, it seeks and it asks… why?