Note to File

In my early twenties, my brother warned me that someday, sooner or later, I'd find wanderlust addicting. At that point, I thought he was crazy. I'd only been out my parent's house two years, and already I'd moved four times. I craved home; I craved a place to call my own; nice things ; a job; and a community where I belonged. I was pretty sure that once I found all those awesome things, I'd find a way to hang on to them.

I wasn't wrong, exactly, but it dawned on me yesterday that finally I'd finally come full circle.

Yes, life is change; messy, inescapeable. My twenties have been a study of this. It's been exciting, heartbreaking, overwhelming and wonderful. Throughout them, I'd used change voluntarily or involuntarily as a chance to escape boredom, bad roommates, a low-paying job, see new countries, make new friends, whatever. Wait six months, I thought, and things will be different.

What I failed to grasp was that in and of itself, change is just a thing. It doesn't actually solve any problems. For example, I used to think that if I didn't like my job, there were other ones to have (still true). However, what I see now is that the things you change to escape from will more than likely follow you anyway. I could move, get married, have kids, live in Timbuctu, and still - still - there will be challenges. Stupid bosses. Ailing relatives. Crabby kids.

I'm not addicted anymore; I just am.

And for that, suddently I feel extremely tired.

///And old.