Flight or Flight.

There is no such thing as running away. 

We're always running to something aren't we? I remember being eight years old and being told by my older brother that I couldn't join in a game of soccer with him and his friends. I was so angry I put a pair of socks, an apple, a notebook and pen and binoculars in a backpack and set off into the street. From the outside this probably looked like running away, to me it was finding a new brother. Someone with whom I could play. 

I have done this countless times since then. I've usually packed a bit more and I haven't since been in search of a new brother (I've consented to the fact that I'm stuck with the one I've got,) but I've always thought that if I got sad, angry, sick or bored of my current circumstances, then it's necessary to change them. 

Just like my teen magazines told me to never put up with a boyfriend that doesn't treat you well, the same goes for life. If it's not working out, strive for something more, something different. We all have the power to chase what we want. When you're eight years older it can seem a lot easier, but it's just as important when you're 25, 54 or 73. 

I am definitely 'flight'. I don't think I have an ounce of 'fight' in me. I found myself in bed during a huge earthquake and I was under the nearest door frame before I even opened my eyes. I even have the hip bruises courtesy of my door-grazing desk to prove it. I am trained in 'flight'. When my city literally collapsed around me, I was on a one way bound plane to Paris within months. 

I wasn't running away from my beloved home, I was running to safety, freedom, youth and experience; in my eyes this came in the form of an adventurous, action packed, exciting year in the city of romance. I was running smack bang into my twenty's, taking a leap of faith into the unknown, a blind step into a new life. I was running into my future, when I had previously seen it crumble around me. 

I love airports. Sometimes I feel like I live at them for large periods of time. As if each new arrivals gate is another room in my travelling home; different languages signifying the diversity of an ever-changing abode. 

I recently personally overheard an exclamation from a middle aged denim clad couple with pastel shirts and loafers standing close together and far from others remark on a tramping pack toting thirty-something striding through the arrivals, "I wonder what he's running from?"

Her manicured hands grabbed a shiny purse as her husband peered at the man, judgement seeping through his wide brimmed frames. I watched him stride through the shiny doors, his eager eyes searching the crowd. I watched as his tramping boots moved across the acrylic floor, past the tourist information office, the nearest ATM and the taxi stand sign. He swept past me and later, the designer couple, leaving a scent of pine, thistle and adventure, before bending down still wearing his pack, as a young toddler with a bright smile and a head covered in thick blonde curls ran clumsily into his arms. An older boy and a thirty-something wife followed eagerly with matching smiles ready across their faces. 

We're not all running away from something, we're almost always running to it.