milk and honey on the mountains

She pulled herself by the bootstraps up the mountain, or so they say. And at the top she wanted a cup of tea. With milk and honey. No lemon. Too much zest bothered her taste buds. The citrus kind of zest, not the spicy kind. This mountain is a metaphor, and it's not a metaphor. She was thirsty in the physical sense, but also thirsty in the romanticized sense. Her heart became wanderlust that day, that moment. She wanted to explore. Explore the knowledge left for her to learn. In books, on websites, in magazines. To explore the places she had never been, yet her heart missed them. It is a strange feeling to miss something you've never known. Or perhaps known in photographs or in diner conversations. But it is a feeling, a feeling with no name. A feeling that made her crave milk and honey and a warm cup of tea. That's what she wanted to drink when she climbed mountains. When she conquered steep pathways. She wanted to keep climbing, exploring, sitting on rocks and drinking tea. Pulling out a tin of cigarettes to enjoy at the top. Now she climbed one, small. She wanted to climb them all. See all of the places and meet all of the faces. Once your heart sees the world untouched from up above, you can't unsee it. Or unfeel it. You crave more of it.
And with that, she made plans with herself to see the world and all those souls, mostly good, some not so good that inhabited it. There are rocks and trees and waitress and gas station attendants with stories to tell. She wanted to explore their hearts. And explore the spines of books.