I remember my first time on vacation. The fear of entering a plane and taking off, fly really high up in the sky, looking down at the clouds, the cities beneath me, and at last the feeling of being free. It’s something beautiful, being able to be that high up and looking down on everything below you, but it was nice too, getting off the plane. At first I was scared, I almost started crying, what if something went wrong? I’ve heard that the chance of getting into a car crash is higher than the chance of a plane crashing, but that didn’t comfort me at all when I first stepped into it. When a few minutes had passed, I actually liked it quite much, being so high up in the air.
The first thing I did when I came home from that vacation was going straight to my own bed. My soft, big bed that was mine only. I had missed it so much, there isn’t a better place to sleep than in your own bed, right? I slept like a baby that night, but I got sad when I woke up and found out that I was home and not on vacation. I absolutely loved that vacation. In my opinion, the first time for everything is always the best time and I’m pretty sure that’s right because I haven’t found so much joy in anything when I’ve done it a second or third or forth time. It’s probably because it’s something new and you’ve never done it before and that makes it exciting. It’s not as exciting when you do it a second time because you know what to do and you know exactly how it will feel. There are some things that makes you just as happy the second time as it made you feel the first time though, like writing or hiking or running or something you really enjoy, but it’s hard finding things that do that to you.