There are two things I have always known about myself. I have wanted to be a writer since I was 5 and I have wanted to travel the world - forever. A nomad. That's about it. Sure, things have come and gone in between. I've wanted to do so much more, be so many other things, but those two have always remained the constants in my life, the dreams I always come back to.
Am I living the dream? No. Am I close? Um, no. Getting close? Again, no. It seems like I'm getting further. How the hell did that happen? How did my life get so far off track from what I always envisioned myself doing?
I think I fell asleep one day and when I woke up someone had dropped a house on me. Literally. I need to get this freakin' house off of me so I get moving again. I'm a nomad, we don't live in houses. They keep us down, keep us from moving around. We can't be free. I need my freedom. When most people buy houses they are overcome with joy at what will be. My initial reaction was, shit, I won't be able to travel like I used to, or move around like I want. That should have been a warning.
That is also about the same time that I stopped writing, of any form. My creativity was nipped right along with that freedom.When someone drops a house on you, it's pretty heavy. It squashes a lot inside. I'd say ask the wicked witch but you know how that ended. At least I didn't get killed.
I'm working on it. I know it will take time but I have plans in the works. Dusting off the old stories for some reworking, getting that passport ready for action - Paris, it's been way too long - and not procrastinating. That last part is going to take some work. Unfortunately, that's the one I'm the best at.
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