I write this now from a train rolling down its rickety tracks towards my university in NYC. This is where I belong. Not my university. Not this train in particular. No. On the road, moving, not here, not there, but somewhere in between.
I spent the weekend at home with my parents. While it was a pleasure to see them, I realized that I could never stay there forever. The repetition would kill me. I would see the same old things, do the same old things, be in the same old place with no escape, except through my writing. But that’s not enough.
While I talked to my parents and their parents, I heard the same stories they had told for years and heard the same hopes and dreams for the future that they’ve been spewing for so long in the past. Why? They don’t do anything new. They don’t go anywhere new. Actually, my father visited one new restaurant, but it was all he could talk about.
I am a writer. I need stories. I need adventures. I can’t stay in the same spot. I need freedom.
Who’s to say what I’ll be doing in the future, but here’s to hoping that I’ll travel the world and never stop until my bones ache and the skin sags off my cheeks.
He Who Wanders 