There are few things as important to me as my passport; it's tattered, well-worn and stained with stamps of cities, countries and continents that are soaked into its creases. It has borne witness to every exploit, to every missed plane and every excited skip I've taken from airport to city-center.
It's been lost -- and it's been found.
My passport has been my ticket to every wine-soaked story I replay to myself when I can't sleep. It's seen every cringe-worthy moment I stumbled over a foreign language. It's the key to my past, my present and all the could-bes that decorate my imagination in the throes of boredom.
Because travel has formed me; it has made me me.
When I was a child (and perhaps even now), I would spin the globe and run my finger up and down excitedly determining where I would spend the whole of my life. And, yes, I often landed in the ocean, but I knew how to swim.
Because I've always been moved by the insanity of wanting to do, see and gather it all. Because I can't sit still. Because I can't stop dreaming of other colorful countries while I stare out the window.
Because living in a city is wonderful, but ever so often I feel trapped by its concrete expanse; I feel towered over by familiar buildings, and that itch in my leg begs me to run wild -- and I hear my passport calling again.
Sometimes you just need to get away from it all: the blinking cursor on your Excel spreadsheet, the four walls of your sparsely-decorated "apartment," the same restaurants and the same bars.
Routine can be beautiful, but only for as long as you can stand it.
You've got so little time to be young. When your stomach still burns with the envy to do everything and to meet everyone and to dazzle the world, and your fingertips before you are burdened by anything but the present moment and what else it could possibly hold.
If you need any more inspiration to hop on a plane, take your car past state lines or explore places in your own city you've never seen, there are far better words than mine.