Unglued

It takes less than a day to fly half-way around the world.
It takes about 15 hours to drive from my house to my grandparents' house in Florida.
It takes about 6 hours to fly across the country.
It takes sometimes two hours to drive from my house to my parents' house.

I love traveling, but I always feel a little unglued at the end of the transportation part of the journey.

How is it that we can move so fast? Do some of our atoms blow away as we rush head first into the wind? Are there bits of us scattered across the countryside, the country, the world from our speedy transitions? Do those missing pieces finally catch up, or are they channeled into someone else nearby to where they were blown?

How is it that we can see so much? What do we remember? Is it the traffic or the sunsets? The turbulence or the slight curvature of the earth? Are the spaces of our blown-away pieces filled up with the memories of our travel?

What, at the end of the day's journey, glues ourselves back together?

In all of it

Tyler Knott doesn't title these poems of his, but here's the link to this poem on his site: http://tylerknott.com/post/40680119576/look-on-the-happy-side-of-all-things-happiness