Wanderlove

What you love the most is what you have to fight the hardest to keep.

You can't control the past, but you can control where you go next.

Envy is when you want what someone else has. Jealousy’s when you also don’t want them to have it.

Wanderlust is like itchy feet. It’s when you can’t settle down. But Wanderlove is much deeper than that . . . it’s a compulsion. It’s the difference between lust and love.

Even when life turns out different than what you've planned, it's always better to try and fail than to wonder what could have been.

You got to find your own places. The places you get, girl, the ones that stick in your heart. And if you’re lucky, you find people to share them with.

Hearing about vacations is like hearing about dreams -- no one cares except the person who's experienced them.

Wanderlove is about forgetting the bad things and focusing on the good. Out with the old and in with the new... The only way to escape the past is to keep moving forward.

I've come to realize that sometimes, what you love most is what you have to fight the hardest to keep.

When you're three, you don't draw what you see--you draw upon your imagination. Nobody tells you to stop putting wings on people, unless you have a most unfortunate preschool teacher. You are intoxicated by your own magic.

I know what it's like. To sabotage yourself. Nothing makes you hate yourself more than that.

You can appreciate the good things all around you, but the best part is imminent, just out of reach. Like... perpetual anticipation.

But all that's hugely unlikely -- with the exception of mosquito bites and sunburn. And yet even experienced travelers are still afraid. "What everyone forgets -- even me -- is the people who actually live here. In places like Central America, I mean. Southeast Asia. India. Africa. Millions, even billions, of people, who live out their whole lives in these places -- the places so many people like us fear. Think about it: they ride chicken buses to work every day. Their clothes are always damp. Their whole lives, they never escape the dust and the heat. But they deal with all these discomforts. They have to. "So why can't travelers? If we've got the means to get here, we owe it to the country we're visiting not to treat it like an amusement park, sanitized for our comfort. It's insulting to the people who live here. People just trying to have the best lives they can, with the hands they've been dealt.

Because - admit it - there's something perversely appealing about sitting all alone, feeling sorry for yourself, especially when the scenery's stunning and there's a party going on behind you.

You're not big on people, are you?" "I wouldn't say that. Just ... when faced with the choice between small talk with strangers and peace and quiet, I'll choose the latter every time. You know?

I guess I work in small ways. It's kind of like this story someone told me, about a guy on the beach in Mexico throwing starfish in the sea. Thousands had washed ashore. Someone asked him why - 'Why are you wasting your time, when there are so many? You can't possibly make a difference.'" "I know that story! The man threw another one back, and said -" "'Made a difference to that one!'" Rowan finishes.

Prices are relative. So is poverty. So is happiness.

My dad didn't find me - I found myself. So that's when I figured out that the only person who could take care of me was me.

Isn't that what your memory was about, Bria? Losing control?" I pause. "I never knew memories were about anything. Besides the obvious. You make them sound like dreams -- subject to interpretation." "I think the two are more related than we realize. It's all in how our minds frame them. How we decide what -- and how -- we remember.

Impulsive isn’t something you choose. It’s something you are.

Travel is a matter of perspective.

I want to draw you. All of you.' Then I pause. 'That came out wrong-you can keep your clothes on.

I think I kind of get it," I say. "Your Wanderlove thing." "Oh Yeah?" "It's about always looking toward the future. You can appreciate the good things all around you, but the best part is imminent, just out of reach. Like... perpetual anticipation.

The only way to escape the past is to keep moving forward.

Well... I love moving in extra dimensions. Not just backwards and forwards, but up and down and around. And fins. I love swimming with fins— human feet are practically useless underwater. I love all the unique things you see on each dive. Millions of little aquatic soap operas playing out between all the creatures. And the silence. Well, it’s not really silent down there, but the roar of bubbles blocks any other sound...

I know that this time, the worst thing I can do is let go. And I won't be losing anything. Because it's the most selfish thing I could ever do—to allow myself to fall for someone worthwhile.

I love moving in extra dimensions. Not just backwards and forwards, but up and down and around.

I recall the rasp of charcoal on newsprint, the chewing-gum stretch of a kneaded eraser, the precarious bite of a razor blade in a new pencil. The vibrancy of fresh watercolors squeezed from a tube. A new sketchbook, cracked open to flawless white. The way the smell of turpentine made me feel simultaneously sick and excited.

The world could screech to a halt on its axis and the dock could be swept out to sea in an apocalyptic current, and we wouldn't notice. Our universes have condensed into each other.

Toby liked to say he chose not to be impulsive. As if being impulsive were something you consciously decide. When I look at Starling, with her turquoise turban and wet knot of hair, and at Rowan, with his stack of cheap string anklets, I think: Impulsive isn't something you choose. It's something you are. Like gay, or freckled or bipolar. Something I pretend to be but am not. Not really. Not deep down.