Jacksonville, Florida. I have settled at my final destination on this trip that I started three weeks ago. Air travel sucked me into a whirlwind of people and movement. Airports are a strange thing. All these buildings strung together and categorized by terminal, each a portal opens and closes doors to separate and different parts of the worlds, people floating to and from each one, all on their own path. But where is the enchantment in air travel? How can you know where you’ve been if you don’t experience each texture?

Florida is humid and sticky. I sat on the back porch of my house last night listening to the rain fall and a storm begin to eat up the inter-coastal waterway. Every surface it hit gave way to a different sound and a symphony was born from water—the hollow tick of drops on the metal house drains and garbage cans, water drops meeting the perfectly circular lake behind the house, the swell of liquid meeting more liquid, each little fleck of moisture on the grass and steel black fence encasing the backyard. The sky was black and blue, veins of lightning running through the clouds, illuminating them purple and gray and the thunder seemed to roll onto the land from the ocean. There is a stillness of nature here that can only be listened to and I sat in the middle of all of it, wondering how I got here. How did any of us get here?

I crossed through eight states and have arrived at my new home, the house with my family and comfort beating against all the walls. And, the only thing I can think after all the sun I absorbed on the road and the asphalt we covered is that, everywhere you go, there you are. It is up to YOU, the traveller to make the most of each place you carry yourself.

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