A Modern Odyssey

I'm about to go on a long journey to a faraway land, on a whim.
Fear and excitement come in waves, heavy and dizzying. My stomach sinks and rises. I've felt like this for days. Weeks, even; it started quietly but slowly grew stronger, building like a storm in the distance, a tsunami swelling up, a tornado spinning out of control. And on the journey's eve, here I am, strangely calm, although my insides quake a little, and my mouth is dry. I feel like I could vomit. I feel like I could cry. I feel numb. And  I feel euphoric. No feeling can beat this. None at all. This is the feeling that comes before all adventures. This is the unknown, the good kind of unknown, the kind we dream about, the kind we long for. This is what entices sailors to the sea, this is what lures climbers up mountains and astronauts into space and divers fathoms downwards into the deep. And somewhere in that unknown, lost in that great abyss, like a needle in a haystack, a tiny blue dot in the universe, there you are. Waiting for me. And I am coming to find you. A modern Odyssey, condensed into a clean, clinical journey of a mere 16 hours, facilitated by a flying machine the likes of which the Greeks could only have dreamt of. Flight delays and missed connections instead of Circe and Cyclops.

 I don't know what will happen when I arrive. I don't know if I will arrive. But I'm going into the unknown and I'm not looking back.