I don't really have anything to say about this photo, but for some reason I feel so drawn towards it. This is me, in my messy apartment because my classmates and I were doing a project for a class. Well, I was watching a documentary as they worked on the project. My laptop is broken there, but I've already bought a new one. My room has clothes and books sprawled across the floor, and my shelf is so cluttered. My hair isn't as long anymore, but I trust it will grow quickly. There's nothing particularly interesting about this photograph, but I'll just leave it here for you to see.

Seeing, but never feeling.

Here I am, once again. Another late night, sitting on the edge of my bed after a long day of work. Clothes, shoes, books and papers scattered across the bedroom floor but they're just sacraments of reality to me. They're anchors, just like the rest of my home. The grey couch, the grey carpet, the grey walls- anchors that constantly wake my daydreams of Macaroons, white dresses, and bicycles in Paris. They steal me away from New York, city skylines and beautiful people, and force me into a routine so depressing I could slit my throat right here on this bed. Who is the culprit? The fantasy or the reality? Who is to blame for my yearning?

I blame the books. The black-and-white lined pages that composed majority of my childhood. They're the ones that educated me, that told me about places far away from this one, where even boring old meadows held the sweetest of surprises, and a boat in the sea meant only one thing: adventure. Books, they are the ones that ruined me. They brought my mind so far away but kept my body spotless and thirsting to be transformed, to follow the imagination into wondrous worlds of lives I'd never live.

What good is seeing the unknown but never feeling it? 

Those pages, they're dangerous. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home

Do I stay? Do I leave? Where do I go? What about all these faces I'll probably never see again? Is this a phase? I don't know. I've been itching to get up and leave, fulfill my gypsy needs and just leave it all behind me. Find a new life. I know it's not that easy, but oh, how I wish it was. The people around me are no longer the people they used to be. They're nothing but anchors, dedicated to pulling me down and making the struggle even harder. What are they good for, what are you good for? We used to laugh, we used to play, now all we do is argue and all I do is find you annoying. I don't see myself being here much longer. Why continue drinking the poison? For hope that it turns into wine, I suppose. And that everything will go back to normal and I will be happy with the faces I know too well and the small city with no adventure.
I long for dirty windows of metal buses, chattering along dusty roads. Strange places, strange faces, nomads wrinkled with the wear of travel. I long for different cities every week, different people to dance with, different dogs to touch. I wish I could pack my entire life into a suitcase and just bid this one goodbye.