I am lost in the thoughts of existentialism. Clobbering myself with the sense of purpose, achievement, failure(s), and identity. Probably that’s what traveling does to you. A self embibed search, understanding how things transpire, and how we may grow beyond.
Yet, when being reminded of the destinations I have been to, and which I aim to revisit, I am either filled with nostalgia or regret. The nostalgia of the moment spent, and regret of how it could have been improved. The reason for my preference to explore places on foot, instead of the practiced ‘click and move’.
Delving deeper into the thought. There is a sense of curiosity present. How can the sense be improved? Probably by pelting stones in a river, or probably bamboozling through the market(s). Whatsoever I hold, there is an ever-present attraction to it. A distinct form of art and a unique style of nature. The reason of my fondness for art. There is no end to it.
To the people wondering why these thoughts? I am train bound to another city, deciding on a whim what my future will hold. I guess this sense will prevail until my imagination.