The meaning of travel 

Why travel? This is the question I always find myself asking when on one of my self-exploration quests. In these moods it is apparent that I tend to ransack my own life, thread-by-thread, until I can find that single piece of hope; the answer to that one key question: why? Maybe it is because of this feeling that never goes away; the constant need to search, high-and-low, country to country, for the ‘something’ that I feel I need to grab a hold of. This ‘something’ is, I can only describe as, the true essence of life, the meaning of our existence, or quite simply put; myself.

I have always assumed I was a travel lover as it was a means of searching for myself. Through extensive travelling externally, you coincidentally explore internally, and discover more about who you are. Constantly searching to find the place, the people, to where you feel you belong. But as time passes, as it does, I am still in the thick of my exploration and very much still suffering the full feverish symptoms of this travelling ‘bug’ I have always been told I had and yet without any further developments as to this ‘real me’ I have been awaiting to discover. And so I am starting to question the reasons behind my lifestyle choices once again.

It has occurred to me this time, however, that the answer to this question has shifted, and this time it is far less evocative and meditative as my previous answer. This time, I am starting to think that the reason why I travel is a lot more simple, a lot more straight forward, and along much more of a ‘just because’ line of thought. Why travel? To explore the world and its greatness, to grab hold of life, and to spend every second sucking in the earth’s beauty like oxygen. And why? Well, to do the annoying answering a question with a question. Just because: why not?

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