I've moved again. 7th time in just under a year and a half. I have moved from Colorado to Cambodia. Cambodia to Colorado. Colorado to Massachusetts. Massachusetts to Colorado. Colorado to New York (Manhattan). Manhattan to Brooklyn. Brooklyn to a different place in Brooklyn.
I'm spent.
Amidst my piles of books and mismatched socks there is a beautiful apartment. 12 foot ceilings. An archway. Old etched glass doors. Its paradise.
But i still can't shake the feeling of "oh shit" I continuously have regarding New York City. The "oh shit" feeling I have that I am living in the wrong place. Pursuing the wrong dream.
I know the dreams I want most. They are the ones I etch into journals swathed in faux leather covers. The writings I carve deep into their pages, aching for a life of a more pastoral nature. A life where I work on my art. Write my stories. Breathe fresh air daily. And yet, I stop short of truly chasing such dreams. Instead I put myself into jobs that eat all my time. Classes that just don't do my life dreams justice.
I want more.
I want an outdoor shower covered in ivy. A barn where I can create. A house where I can bake bread. Daily.
I. Need. Out.
Two years to go, maximum. Two more years.
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