I feel such a sense of eternity when I travel, as if the acceleration of plane or car would thrust me toward the heavens, the world whooshing by as the ages vanish into the past. When I arrive at my destination, I engage in activity with greater vigor, rest more contentedly in the quiet moments, sleep more soundly at night, rise in the morning with a stronger visceral sense of purpose than I can seem to achieve at home.
Perhaps I sense that my reason for existing lies beyond the mundane routine that drones on at home, perhaps I feel that any alteration in schedule or location brings me somehow closer to my Final Destination. But these are only pit stops along the way, and I know that if I stayed long enough to sink into the repetition of daily life, I would again feel the restlessness, the urge to creep toward the next stop on my route Home.
I used to chide myself for feeling such discontent with daily life. But shouldn't I feel restless? Shouldn't I feel antsy? I will not remain in this world very long. I'd best not make myself too comfortable.
Perhaps some day I will realize that eternity has already begun, and I need only be still to know it.