On fields of white, where we could wander on forever without end, we’re counter intuitively satisfied with staying put.

It’s out there. I am here. It’s all by choice, we reason over a cup of tea.

However, as the sea of clouds breaks apart into pillowy islands of possibility, that same (familiar) anxiety, that same traveler’s curse arises once again…

If this be my island, I must be defined by reaching another, for how could one as capable as I be content with staying here?

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