I like leaving. I like how it lets me put my life on the autopsy table and dissect through the pieces that are left. I like how I can gather every tangible instance that means anything to me and decide whether it stays or goes. I like realizing that I can’t take my bed with me, but that my favorite incense sticks will smell just as life-threatening 6000 miles away. I like forgetting the exact number of nights I’ve spent lying awake on a particular bed and remembering it the next time I lie awake on a new bed.

I like leaving more than I like arriving. Arriving is empty space waiting to be occupied, leaving is space that doesn’t need you anymore because it can exist by itself. It allows you stay back and watch your life (or lives) unfold without you. Arriving is about not belonging. Every time I arrive home, the color of the walls has changed into my new least favorite color, there are books I didn’t buy in my bookcase and my brothers are at least four inches taller than the last time I saw them. Every time I leave home, my bed is warm, I remember where the cutlery is and my brothers feel comfortable enough to be in the same room as me. When I leave, I feel that I belong – not to a particular place or time, but the space in between, where people are still synchronized with each other.

I like leaving more than I like comfort. Comfort is static -- the relieved sigh of arriving home after a long weekend trip and realizing that your bed is still unmade and your coffee mug is still on the table where you left it when you ran out. However, the sigh only lasts for as long as a sigh can last before you remember that your essay is still due in five hours. Leaving is ongoing and uncomfortable. There’s nothing comfortable about dirty, hard seats of foreign buses next to foreign people going to foreign places. Except, of course, for the fact no more essays are due in five hours, there are no more sheets on your last bed and your coffee mug now belongs to the first coffee addict you ran into. Despite all odds, there’s comfort in complete discomfort that is moving to your next destination because it isn’t a destination yet.

I like leaving because it allows me to become more. The first time I left, I only carried stories from books, which nicely fit into words, names and punctuation. The second time I left, I carried stories from people, which I tried to save in a bag full of Post-it notes. The last time I left, I carried stories from so many places and times that I couldn’t fit into bags or words, so I stitched the memories onto my skin. The memories are now both mine and me until I decide to let them go, through words.