Paradox

But then, a day later, my fingertips still cold, deadline adrenaline slowly beginning to fizz its way through my synapses, that longing for security vanishes. I watch documentaries from the depths of ancient Borneo rainforests for the film pitch, see colorful birds and humid vegetation. I grow restless.

There is more for me to see. Too much Earth left to explore. All those years I could not bear to travel, I was fed up, and now I race to make up for lost time. I wonder if I am done with New York, or if I should be. To move on to the next. A farm in Australia. Join a rogue documentary film team and be their PA slave in Amazon jungle. Go to India, to my beautiful L, and spend cheap days sweating with her by the Ganges.

Perhaps it is just the cold, playing tricks with my senses and making me dream of sweltering climes. Perhaps once the risers again begin to sing with their boiling steam and the kitchen begins to smell of holiday comforts and spice, I will sink into these warm clothes, this warm home, and I will cherish its convention again.

If only there was not so much adventure to be had.