I watched my Samsonite swing around on carousel 5 and instead of grabbing it I just stared. I had made it all the way here, finally and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to step outside of this airport. Something about baggage claim that seemed permanent, seemed like too much of a commitment to recovering your personal belongings and resurfacing within the general population. I’m use to traveling, use to moving but there seems to be this feeling of unknown purpose that has been plaguing me for months. Most of the time I barely know where I want to be within the next 5 seconds, so a 5 year undertaking is like a soul contract to my mind’s dramatic eye. Something about finding a purpose but not fully knowing if it is actually your own leaves me with this eerie feeling that I’m living someone else’s life. I get into this identity crisis where I think maybe I should change my name since I’m starting over, but do you really start over? Sure you disperse out into the world, but what if you left your soul somewhere it truly belongs and how do you get it to accept a plane ticket from you to return to its owner? I’m finally outside of the airport and I hail the cab that pulls me back to the present, I’m here and once I decided to board that plane maybe it was my soul that was in the seat before I even sat there.