Please?

Hey universe, I want to fall in love.

Tell me.

I’m bored of the same old conversations. Tell me something new. Tell me something that makes me think, that keeps me quiet for awhile. Tell me a story that doesn’t involve a ‘he said, she said.’ Tell me a story about a journey, an adventure, a lesson. Tell me something in the darkness of tree cover, not in the bright lights of a drunken club. I don’t care about small talk—tell me something big. Tell me something real, something about you. Tell me something that will inspire me, change me. Tell me something I don’t already know. I’m bored of the same old conversations, tell me something new.

I can't.

Attempting something you may fail is a risk, an act of vulnerability and a test of talent or ambition or luck. But the thing is, no one cares how many times you fall. No one remembers when you almost succeeded or tallies your mess ups. People remember when you do something remarkable, something worthy of their brainspace. You are the only one that won’t forget your failures, and that is how it should be. Because failures are just lessons, layers of knowledge and experience that build the stairs to your success—the success that you just might be remembered for.

Never say ‘I can’t.’

Wanderer

Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.

-Anatole France

This Room I'm In.

They all call it home, this room I’m in. It is too small for me, for my life. My shoes can hardly hit the floor—being here makes my feet itch, itch for adventure, for the world, for anything outside this room. A jail cell that I entered voluntarily, trapped by the promise of homemade dinners and familiarity. Nothing has changed here, even the commercials on TV are the same. But I’m not. The crazy dreamer left to pursue a dream, one that doesn't include this bedroom. The flowers on the desk—an attempt by a boy to resurrect a love that died a long time ago—make my chest collapse in anger, annoyance, and pity. There are so many things in here, so many things I don’t want or need. The suitcases scattered on the floor beg to be repacked. Their purpose is to go, just like mine. These blue and gray walls are too calm for me, the colors too stable. I get claustrophobic inside these walls, anxious to open the door and run. They call it home, this room I’m in. But I prefer to be homeless.

Rule #12

When something causes more anger, stress, or grief than it does happiness, it is time to make a change.

November 1

Everything. Nothing. All at once. Always, never.

No goddamn stagnancy. My enemy, my rival. Keep walking.

No standing, no stopping. No strings, no strings, no strings.

No entanglements. No holding hands.

Don’t hold me back.

Searching? No. Looking.

Not looking for something. Looking for anything, I suppose.

My eyes are aware, my feet are in constant motion.

I want to take it all, I want it to take me. Encompass me in statues oceans and cobblestone streets.

Churches and thousands of years. My hands will become the eighteen hundreds. And my body a gargoyle. My mind will be a tourist, a raven, a rat on the street. I will scamper and scrounge until I am dead. No strings, no tangles, no holding hands. I will spin a globe and go where it stops. I will run and run until my feet burn. And then I will run some more. I will forget my name, and get a new one. Something exotic, or something plain. I will lose my clothing and run naked. I will learn to be friends with the dirt roads and the sheep and the stalks of corn. And then I will find the city. The city with no limits.

Don’t tell me where to go.