Journal Entries of a Vagabond

I am a chronic journaler. I have been since I was thirteen years old. There are stacks of filled notebooks lining my bookshelves, each one containing stories of a unique period of my life. To my fellow travelers and vagabonds: write. Let words anchor you in times of uncertainty. Let words draw emotions out of you when you feel like you have too many to hold. 

When the world feels like it's moving too fast and when you find yourself jumping from planes to trains and cars, a sweet cathartic release awaits you in the form of a pen and paper. This is the one piece of advice I’d give to any wanderer. 

Raw and unedited, here’s a journal entry from my travels during Fall Break: 

This is a place that bends the laws of time and space. Dinner can be had at 7 A.M. in the morning. Sleep comes sporadically at odd hours. There are no indications of when the sun sets or rises except for when the coffee shop around the corner pulls down its blinds for the night. 

You find yourself tuning in and out of conversations being had in dozens of languages, at the intersection of diverse sets of norms and cultures. Here, I—and evidently, those around me—cease to hold on to our identities, save for what is stamped in our small, leather-bound booklets. 

This is a place where it is socially acceptable to go through your day in pajamas or perhaps even episodically break out in questions. Questions will not be asked. It is, after all, a given that—by virtue of you being here—you’re further away from a place you might call home. And getting farther, and farther. 

Here, we are all people in motion. Our bloodshot eyes serve as uniforms and a sense of camaraderie is born from the shared experience of transit. In this sea of people, I am no longer Arshiya Husain. I am just another person being missed by a brother, mother, partner. 

Here, in this melting pot of cultures, take comfort in the universal phenomenon of missing. To be a traveler is to miss and be missed. 

• On London Heathrow Airport, November 2024