'i tramp my perpetual journey', says walt whitman. inclining on the ottoman-style cushion in a cafe in the old sarajevo, i contemplated my own long, lonesome road trip. my guts all twist together as the road leading to the comfort of home unfolds before my eyes. the tramp, if ever there is one, comes to a halt. i wander in the turkish quarter of the town, enduring the scorching sun and my crave for water. i linger in souvenir shops like other tourists do. yes. i am going home. no more my daily routine of laying out the map each and every morning trying to link every dot on it, no more imagining what awaits me in the next stop. no more knocking on doors asking for a bed. i am, going, home.
all's said and done. the bell jar descends again.
wherever i sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in paris or bangkok - i would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
- Sylvia Plath, "the bell jar"