The Sin of Seneca

Mei,

There’s so much that could be said and done, but sometimes words fail me. Sometimes I forget that I’ve waited at the gates of heaven—sitting in airport VIP lounges, drifting between flights, drinking from the honeyed well of life. It wasn’t always like this, but I made it, and now I wander: to celebrate, to have extravagant birthday cakes, to run around as if there’s no tomorrow.

So much time spent traveling, hopping from one place to another. The places I once called home—are they truly mine anymore? Maybe I’ve misunderstood it—the philosophy of why I traveled in the first place: to see things I’ve never seen, to meet people I haven’t met, to discover cafés and bars, to stumble upon spontaneous experiences. Is that what you want to hear? Is that what keeps you dreaming about leaving your comfort zone, even just once?

For me, travel in the past few months has been so comfortable that I’ve forgotten the feeling of adventure and escape. But I understand what you mean: you don’t want to feel anchored to the ground—you crave a life suspended between earth and sky. But living in that in-between isn’t always magical. Sometimes you just get tired and wish for all your belongings in a single wardrobe, not scattered in suitcases.

Mei, I don’t think you’d envy me for my situation, and I wouldn’t envy yours either. So, what’s the perfect setup? What’s ideal? Order or chaos? What makes for the perfect adventure, the place where we feel truly content? Is it having a home to call our own, or wandering the world like free spirits? Is it dining in seven-star restaurants, or eating street food in unfamiliar places? I don’t know the answer—maybe I don’t want to think about it now. Should I settle, or keep moving? What truly makes us happy in the end?

They’re calling my flight now; I’ve got to go. Write me soon. Can we agree to write each other often? I can’t promise that I’ll always manage it—life has a way of getting in the way—but I’ll do my best.

Nim