Wanderlust

I got back from Costa Rica on Sunday. I left for camp on Monday. I had to get out of Portland, I really did. It was starting to get to me, it really was. The only reason I wanted to stay was this girl, but even that wasn’t quite enough. You stay in one place long enough and you start to feel pretty bored, at least I do—and depressed and you get those twinkling’s that life is meaningless and not really worth it. I’m not sure why. Some call it wanderlust.
It was a funny thing though, when I arrived at camp. I like camp, I really do. But after the first day, I couldn’t wait to leave. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. It probably has something to do with being content. Wherever I am, I always want to be somewhere else. Not that I don’t like the present, I do, usually. But when I’m here I fell like being there. And when I get there, I want to be back here. I’m getting better, I think. But it’s still there. I swear to God I’m crazy, I really do. A madman. Not really sure what I want in life really, or where I’m going. And sometimes I’m okay with that. And other times I feel that it’s probably all right around me, inside me.
But I feel content now, I really do. Sitting on this bench, with the tall pine trees—like skyscrapers—reaching towards the sky, towering. And these log cabins, and my friend Todd (or Holland at camp.) And it’s good to be in the woods, away from nice things. Normal things. Busy things. Where I can read words on processed trees, turned to yellow pages. And listen—to earthly things. Nature things.