"You only are free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all. The price is high, the reward is great. More and more, I belong to myself. I’m very proud of that."

-- Maya Angelou

As I was doing my taxes today, this beautiful assassin bug kept wandering around the picnic table where I was working.

I'm no entomologist, but I can hazard a guess as to what its goal was: find bugs to suck, and find bugs to fuck. #sorrynotsorry

But as it explored every surface and every edge of the tabletop, it found everything except what it was looking for. Because it was looking in the exact wrong places. Because it wasn't willing (or able) to break from its current paradigm and look somewhere new.

Damn, little bug, I feel you.

The ego-narratives I tell myself; my avoidance of things which challenge my worldview; hell, even my own antisociality —

These all trap me in my own picnic-table flatland, where I wander around feeling like I'm exploring, but where in reality, I'm a prisoner of my own self, and of my own selfishness.

I'm beginning to think that this may be why I've programmed myself to reflexively avoid comfort and familiarity: it's not necessarily an avoidance of routine; or a seeking-out of novelty; but rather a fear that, while I may feel like I'm making progress, in reality I'm actually quite trapped.

One of my core fears is that I'm a prisoner who feels that they are free. One of my primary motivations (and why I'm traveling) is to define my sense of Home. And I can't help but feel like the two are connected.

❤️ Conrad