When I come home from my classes, if I am not out partaking in some activity, an inevitable catatonia is draped over my being. Is it the summer afternoon itself? The grinding of the toaster timer? The occasional lukewarm breeze? The churning of planes gliding through the air above me, moving 200 people towards hope and oblivion. Towards the future. I would enjoy travel. I would like traveling. I would appreciate traveling. I want to travel. I wait to travel. I will my world to let me travel. I waste to travel. I wrestle to travel. I wrangle the days and nights hoping to travel. Now the question I ought to ask my non-existent psychiatrist is: why?