DRIFTING THROUGH the place of coming and going; it’s a cold bright morning and I’m heading back to Japan. I’m excited, man. Deathly excited.

Staring out the window at the planes, doing the thing I know and love, putting pen to page. It’s never easy to say goodbye. But it’s getting easier, so I guess I’m on my way.

I consider if I did enough, if I was there in my mom’s arms or in the car or by the fire with my friends; I feel good and they know I love ’em; it’s wild growing up, feeling like your future is unfolding, caring enough to want the path ahead to brighten.

In the kitchen of my parent’s home there’s now a small mosaic of a red Mt. Fuji next to a rust orange matcha chawan, a mug for drinking.

My dad brought the picture home when he visited me in Japan last summer.

I brought the chawan back this time, a gift from my favorite store, Osaka Chakai, ran by one of my favorite people, Kauru.

Japan continues to astound my soul; adventure’s all I crave; I could have never expected how parts of me will linger in the past like the picture or the cup, and for some inexplicable reason, expressions of my spirit lost will bear Japan’s heart, for it’s now something I carry, imbuing my every move as a force of nature — the time spent wandering, years spent wondering, footsteps yet taken in the trail of dust, calling me wide eyed and boldly into the unknown.

Wanderlust — a desire which may bloom or dwindle like waves; forever a part of the sea that is me.

And when I move, wonder may follow as tattoos of travel and memories unlocked; the picture of Fuji San and the difficult goodbyes mean the same thing, and that is love, for I love this life I’ve chosen.

I love it so goddamn much.

Sitting in the place of coming and going, writing as I look out the window at the men and women in neon jackets, calling in the stormbound and midnight piercing birds.

I hope that love is felt when I say goodbye.

When you glimpse the picture in the kitchen or you use the mug, or you think of flying or you think of your past; what parts of your soul linger in the places you’ve been; what fragments of the heart remain when you leave to go somewhere new, pieced together with the thread of future tales.

And I hope like the cup of coffee I’m sipping that these thoughts, these words, the places you’ve been and the places we’re going, warm your day as they do mine.

The glass is clear.

The future is golden and I can’t really understand or believe it, but I’m going somewhere.

This is life — beautiful when we’re in it, but when we’re in it, it’s hard to understand it; these thoughts may surface years from now, looking back at how the years across the ocean made me.

Perhaps then, I’ll have moved on, carrying with me the shattered and shimmering pieces of what I’ve found and left.