Monologue: Away from Here

I’m already far away. That should be enough. New air, new light, a different language on every street sign. Yet part of me still strains toward the next border, like distance itself has become a habit I can’t unlearn.

It isn’t about wanting more—at least, not exactly. It’s that strange pull Camus named, the ache for “away from here.” I recognize it now: the hunger to be unpinned, to watch myself dissolve into a new station, a new hotel, a new city that doesn’t know my name.

But what am I escaping? Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s not escape at all but an instinct to keep the world wide, to remind myself that I could always begin again. Airports are chapels for that feeling. Everyone is in transit, nobody belongs, and somehow that’s enough belonging for me.

I could stay. I could leave. Both seem right and wrong at once. Perhaps the choice isn’t between destinations but between stillness and motion, between the part of me that wants to rest and the one that listens for the sound of engines.

For now, I’ll stand here, suitcase quiet beside me, and wait for the moment when the name of a city stops being a word and starts feeling like permission.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc&Co.