I think of cities the same way I think of people. The more I see of what this new land will have to offer, the more captivated I become. I want to know everything, find the more secretive sides, the spots that only the locals know and discover the people who don’t shout about their existence to every soul that will listen. You have to breathe the city’s air for yourself, witness the movement of those familiar strangers. Beauty isn’t the same at night as it is in the light, and no matter how your brain may lie to you, you simply cannot witness places you haven’t set foot in with people you haven’t shared air. Things aren’t always the same when you’re thousands of miles away. The strangeness and familiarity blinds you as you wrap yourself into the skin of a city that does not belong to you. Living with the intention of learning about each city as it comes, in quick succession and never staying long enough to become sick of one area. Yet I cannot blame wanderlust for the purer kind of lust. I’ve always wanted to fall in love with everyone extraordinary I meet, to learn about the pockets of their lives in such short amounts of time, to find myself in their skin and to cut tiny pieces from their chest for memoirs. Leaving for the cold eastern air, chilling my skin and breathing away the imprint of where I slept in the new day. To pack up and leave for the next destination, with a coffee stop and my thoughts with the clouds as I lead down the highway. Becoming very much in love with nothing in particular. I feel things so fiercely, they burn out so quickly. 

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