Eleutheromania

Eleutheromania. A strong yearning for freedom.

I am less than 3 months from eighteen years old.

Yet, in my room, with it’s white walls and white sheets. In my small house, fifteen minutes from the nearest town. In an area of the country so far removed from the city, where paddocks and farmyards, flat brown land, stretches for miles. In a school, with set hours, set tasks and set deadlines…

I feel trapped.

Too young to escape, and too old, too knowledgeable, to not want to.

I have seen too much of this beautiful earth to quietly accept my small-town country life.

I have immersed my body, head to toe, in the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean; dipped my toes in Italian lakes; and held European snow in my bare hands until my fingers turned numb.

I have spent late nights in Dubai, patiently waiting for hours on end in an airport whose laminated floors echo the footsteps of lonesome travellers.

From the miniature portal of an airplane window, I have witnessed the mountainous cliffs and desert dunes of Saudi Arabia and Turkey; the canals of Venice, an intricate maze of teal, ocean intermingling with city; the snow-capped peaks of the Alps; and the green paddocks of England, rugged patches in a quilt.

I have gazed starry-eyed at the lights of London near Christmas, wrapped in tens of layers and still freezing cold in the November winter; and seen a rainbow traverse the cityscape from the height of the London Eye, small raindrops dotting our view.

I have eaten churros in a queue at Disneyland; laughed with strangers in a bar at 2am; craned my neck to the ceilings of centuries-old chapels; brushed my fingertips through the teal water that, year by year, slowly swallows the streets of Venice.

I have puked my guts out in the streets of a foreign town, after too many shots of honey rum; lost all of my belongings in an airport; explored the streets of Melbourne’s inner city at night, high on life after a Violent Soho concert, before almost passing out of tiredness in a Hungry Jacks with my friends.

I am irrevocably in love with the world and all it has to offer.

But there is so much more that I haven’t seen. Cities and countries whose grounds my toes have not touched.

There are rooftops in New York beckoning for the echo of my footsteps; elevators waiting to take me to the top of the tallest skyscrapers; beaches with crystal sand; quaint cafes and alleyways; museums, galleries and libraries.

I’m yet to treat my tongue to the burst of flavour of fresh fruit from a road-side stall in Cuba; to shiver naked underneath waterfalls in Thailand; to hold the hands of greasy smiling children in Cambodia; or traipse the relentless deserts of Egypt, and pay my respects to the homes of the gods.

There are Seven Wonders out there, as well as every little one in between.

I have an irresistible craving for freedom.

I want to push my windows outward and open every morning, breathe in the scent of pasta and freshly made bread, the salt from the sea permeating the air, and lounge on the balcony and soak in the sun, book in hand. And smile: at the life I have created for myself, the peace that exists within.

To dream is to be free.

(All photos sourced from Tumblr. Credit goes to the rightful owners.)