Dream On

I’m itching for adventure.

Not a vacation. Not a place that everyone is finding themselves traveling to.

Nothing for Instagram, or the Internet.

Something real. Something deep. Something that would define my inhibitions as wild.

I was exchanging traveling stories with one of my co-workers when I realized I needed this. Some of the best moments of my life have occurred when I was simply in a state of wandering. When I was searching for that other piece of myself that I know exists but have not yet found.

There are pieces still out there that I’m longing to go on a search for even if they’re impossible to find. I mean seriously, do we ever truly find ourselves?

I want to be uncomfortable and lost. I want to be in obscure places. Find the hole in the wall bars and talk to people who typically go unnoticed. I want to hear life stories, ones that don’t involve the Internet.

I want to keep a strangers deepest, darkest secret.

I want to listen to music that I don’t understand, yet makes my heart bleed joy.

I want to learn phrases of love in a different language, fall in love, so deep… but only for maybe an hour or a day.

Or maybe I’ll experience all of this with the love of my life. When eyes are glossy yet intense and lips…that sweetness… is that was lust taste like?

The only thing I am certain of – is that feeling. I want to feel it forever.

See, that’s where the magic lives. Not in the places that give you the best photo opportunities, but in the places where art and words meet. Where the stories are created. Where they live and never die. Where the photo can never keep the memories that the heart can.

Where you’re meant to be.

I want to experience… a place that makes the hairs on my arm stand. A place that when you think of it you close your eyes, arch your back, and breathe deep. A place so pure, yet so seedy, that when my children read the book I write about it, they call it fiction.

Maybe I’m just itching to feel.

Simply… feel.

One thought on “Dream On

  1. Love this line “A place so pure, yet so seedy, that when my children read the book I write about it, they call it fiction.” a true writer…
    We never really find ourselves, only the version of ourselves that we keep pretending to be.

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