In Wonderland: A Combination Of Fact & Fiction

In the morning I sit on the bed, legs crossed, hair tumbling over my chest. A small smile floats across my face. I face the wall of the bedroom, which is plastered with wallpaper. Four walls of black and white maps have bound me to their world. I feel safe here. It’s a little like home. The maps are styled to look old, as though a painter dipped his quill in ink and dripped countries and grids across the walls. Parts of it are intentionally faded. The words are scripted in Olde English, French, and Latin, with mountains and rivers strewn across Africa, Evropa, Terra Avstralis, and Arabia. I trace a finger along Nova Francia. A surge of excitement, mingled with guilt bubbles up inside me. Family and friends are all behind me, miles away, and the phone calls haven’t been enough to do them justice. How is it that a person who is so tied to their roots can travel so far from them? An escape from, a search for, a yearning of, nothing more than these, I think, as I let my fingers drift across the wall. How is a person ever to feel wholly comfortable with an amassing distance between here and home? Am I really so Midwestern that I already miss home, only a few states into my adventure?

I watch the sun as it continues to rise and absentmindedly connect the countries with my fingers. I notice the old Norse language tucked into a corner of a wall; the runes are familiar to the eye but not understood. Someone has sketched a tree and the runes into the wall, carved through the wallpaper, deep into the wood behind it. I remember seeing the runes somewhere, but it sits deep in the recesses of a child’s memory, and I can’t remember what they mean. Curious enough to search later, I take a quick picture with my phone. Glancing at the clock tells me it’s too early to call when my parents are still in bed. Later, I tell myself as I dress for the day.