All Hyped-Out

I am over the hype. Done.

Jo, Kaitlin and I went to one of my favorites, the Momofuku Noodle Bar, tonight and it was a nightmare. We waited for over an hour for a table (on a Tuesday night!!), ordered immediately, waited another 15 minutes for our pork buns, then a whopping 45 minutes for our Ramen. Yes, 45 minutes for a fucking bowl of soup.

The service was shaky at best, the venue crowded and loud, but not with a positive energy. It was the frantic energy of annoyed, hungry people.

The pork buns were heaven, as always, but the ramen was mediocre. I guess I am just tired of the super-hyped restaurants with the painfully cool crowds waiting for hours to be honored with a slightly better than average plate of food.

This is not the first time I have been sorely disappointed by one of "the restaurants" in New York, and my disappointment's increasing frequency is distressing.

There are certain places that live-up to the hype, but most of them are out of my price range. For the medium-high priced dining, the cusp of what us mere mortals can afford, we are given flashy names and snotty hostesses, with a side of decent food.

I'm done. I crave authenticity, honest food that doesn't need the flash and glitz to cover it's inadequacies. I am so blessed to live in a city where good food is around every corner, where the good places to eat outnumber the bad. As for the hype and the new flavor-of-the-month hipster eatery, I will leave that to the Williamsburg and LES set. They work hard to maintain their perfectly coiffed aloofness, they deserve their just rewards at the end of a two hour wait.

The food snob in me is still alive and well, it has just gained perspective. I want to get back to the actual food and away from the sceney club of star restaurantures.

You will find me in the back of the bodega,eating authentic Puebla style tacos with the immigrant workers. You will find me in the dirty-looking, and amazing tasting, hand pulled noodle shop with no name. You will find me at the unglamorous, and deeply delicious Dim Sum palace in Chinatown. And you will find me at my favorite pizzeria,sans the truffle oil and Brussels sprout leaves, right here in my unglamorous neighborhood. Will I avoid all the major restaurant players in New York? Certainly not. I will however follow my palate and my stomach, not the crowd, to my own gastronomical New York.

The Writer and The Ego

Being a writer requires a huge ego, perhaps this is why there are so many prolific male writers. The ability to shamelessly bare one's soul proudly, it takes balls.

It is time for me to begin "grabbing my balls" and sharing my work. I blush at the idea that it will be criticized or thought of as silly, but it is time for me to believe in the goodness of what I produce. It is sincere and true and often witty.

It is time for me to take the step forward. It is time for me to arrogantly pronounce my work viable, valuable and worthy.It is time for me to embrace all that i am. It is time to shamelessly proclaim myself a writer, thinker, beauty and visionary.

Sometimes the hardest sale you ever have to make is to yourself.

Help is Not on the Way

The rain clouds rolled in today, with it came dark thoughts and musings...

Help is Not on the Way

Help is not coming. That is the lesson I have learned well over the years. Watch the horizon until you go blind, but it won't change the fact that you must dry your own tears and save yourself. You will not die, life has cruelly wired us for self preservation, it is not so merciful as to let you simply cease to exist.

As a woman i have learned too that men are cowards. This may be why no one is coming. At their core, they understand only self preservation, compassion is left to us. No, he will run away when it hurts too much, or often when the faintest whiff of pain reaches his nostrils.

I suppose it is biological, we are wired to endure, the fate of our species depends on it, it requires only fleeting passion from them.

I suppose it is simply a cruel myth of culture, the idea of a hero, a knight in shining armor. Though it takes many years of watching to learn, eventually we see the truth.

Help is not on the way, but we will survive. You will stop crying out,except in fitful sleep, that is the only place this frivolous hope cannot be banished from.

Living Quietly Within

The torrential, frantic energy of the past month has given way to a quiet stillness. In this lull I find myself happily living in my mind, able to sit quietly and let the thoughts flow over me. I am no longer running, I am safe.

There is still a little voice that tells me if I stop I will become ensnared in the quiet place, if I stop I will not be able to start again. It tells me I am dieing every moment, it tells me to run.

In this place, looking back over the frenetic terrain I just flew across and forward to the hazy horizon, I brush the voice away. I will not be trapped in the land of the living dead. I have left many cages in my wake, they have been sprung and cannot catch me now.

I will not sleepwalk, I am merely resting.

God and the Wounded Creature Within

My reaction to my father's email concerned me. He talked about being in God's favor, about God longing for me, about great things coming to me and being willing to have faith and take a risk. My first thought, my knee-jerk reaction, was that I was about to lose everything. Talk about irrational. When I hear I am being blessed with everything, I hear I am about to lose it all.

I opened my palm and let Him hold my hand today. I felt Him kiss my cheeks. Then He said something I had to ask Him to repeat. He told me that he would like to get to know me in the good times, we had been through enough bad.

Here's the thing, I know when I listen to him things turn out for the best, but I don't feel like I have been listening to anything lately. I have felt a bit odd, a bit disconnected. Perhaps it is just a matter of getting to know him outside of the proverbial warzone, perhaps now is the time to get reacquainted on domestic soil.

It's sad that the One who saved me reminds me so much of that which I needed to be saved from that I would flinch at His name. I am realizing that there is a wounded creature that still lurks inside of me, just under the surface.

I am haunted, in my dreams, by a lingering desire to be saved and by the knowledge that no one ever comes. He does though, He always is waiting. In my poor, damaged mind He designed it that way; a manipulative tactic to thrust me into His arms because there is no one else to cling to. Cognitively, I know this is not true. I know that He does not operate that way. That creature though, she looks at Him with wide-eyed mistrust. How did this happen? I have fought this creature my whole life. Seeing Him and realizing who he is, then forgetting all over again. How could I forget? I want to feel badly, but I don’t feel much of anything save a twinge of sadness.

The creature inside of me heard Him say that He is back, not to save me, but to reintroduce himself to me outside of the shadowy world of my despair. She took a step toward Him, still shaking, but intrigued. Could it be true?

I take it back, I do feel something. It isn’t guilt though; it is deep, deep sadness and shock that I am only now seeing this pathetic creature for the first time. Now that I see her, I realize she has been there all along.

Funny, she came out of the shadows again tonight. Someone got too close to my heart. I reeled back with a vicious growl. I keep her well hidden, but I hear her, barring her teeth at the mere idea of someone getting close enough to hurt me. What happened to me that this thing could live inside of me?

I have spent my entire life running headfirst into the heart of anything that frightens me. I loathe the idea of anything having that kind of grip on me. It is only my great faith in myself that allows for my hopeful views of the future. For someone who dreams fearlessly of conquests and mountains to climb, it is funny to see the cynic beneath it all. I am good at dreaming about that which I can control. Hoping for that which I cannot is terrifying. I do believe that is the risk He is asking me to take now.

Things have been so frighteningly beautiful lately. Seeing the life I have always dreamed of, even the pieces I cannot control, coming together; it is petrifying. How could I have all this? I have done nothing to earn it. It is a gift I cannot bring myself to accept.

He is holding his hand out to me, telling me to take a step into the darkness. Who knew the one thing I would fear would be happiness?

In my philosophical musings I have come to accept that nothing lasts forever, and that is shouldn’t. Life is an ever-changing landscape with wonders and beauties of all different kinds to see along the way. It is not meant to be lived standing still. I have also come to accept the fact that as long as my home is in my heart, each scene will be mine, I will not be alone. I suppose that the next step is living these ideals; believing in the beauty, the goodness and the joy of life.

Now is the time to stop waiting for the “other shoe to drop”. It is time to let go of the fear and accept fully the happiness that has been offered to me, even the happiness that I have not earned. It is time to take the biggest risk of my life; accept joy and all the dangers of loss and disappointment that comes along with it. It is time to heal the wounded creature in my heart. It is time to learn to be truly fearless. I suppose it is time to learn to be more like Him. An open heart is a courageous one.

I have tasted perfection. When I let go it feels more like flying than falling. I want to spread my wings. I want to trust Him to not let me crash to the ground. God gave me the gift and the responsibility of an open heart. Imagine the possibilities if I open it up all the way. Imagine what love like that could do. It could light up a city.

I hear him now whispering, "Trust Me"...

"Perfect" is the Scariest Word in the English Language

This week has been good, very good. It has been ever so slightly scary.

I have been watching the pieces come together, found answers and clarity. The cynic in me says it's too good to be true.

My father wrote me an e-mail today:

I have been praying for you a lot and sense God’s favor is resting on you right now. As you move out in faith, the Lord is going to give you the land your foot rests upon. I’m not sure what that all means, but He longs intensely for you and desires your attention. So, give heed to His voice whenever you sense it and ask Him where you are to step, so that His grace goes before you into the land. I think some things are breaking loose, so be ready for some positive changes and walk boldly into them. Faith is spelled R-I-S-K

I wonder if this means I should "risk" believing that it is possible. I wonder when believing in the good in life became so hard to do.

I know life is not perfect, so when it feels like it's getting too close, I pull myself back. I don't want to be disappointed. Not in people, not in life, not in God. I would say I take the coward's way out by just dismissing any desire I cannot acquire for myself. I think it is more of a survival technique than cowardice though.

It may be time for me to stop surviving and just live fearlessly. Love and dream and hope without inhibition. I'm learning. Aren't I always?

Today has been hard. Despite the beautiful life around me, my brother's struggles brought out an unexpected rage in me. The anger made me start questioning all the good, believing the easier version of the truth where everything falls apart.

Thing is, nothing is made to last forever and that's okay. Things could be beautiful forever without them being the same. I think if they did stay the same, they would lose their wonder.

Yes. I am going to try to believe that life can be perfectly, divinely beautiful. I am going to try to believe that God is willing to give that to me. By now I should know that he gives me gifts I could not have imagined for myself. I once read that desire and longing are the lifeblood of the soul. I want to live, even if it hurts sometimes. Life is too long to hold onto pain and too short not to risk it.

Hearts heal, regrets last forever: here goes nothing!

Cheery Pit BBQ's and Coma-like Sleep

I had a beautiful little Friday. I slept a bit, visited with a few people and let the lack of sleep put me in a subdued state. Yesterday was a continuation of this happy, zen state. I slept, I sat, I ignored the chimes of my various technological devices demanding my presence here or there.

After an afternoon to myself, I decided to re-enter society. Kaitlin wanted me to come over and grill and Jo and Nelson were still at the market. I called them to see if they wanted to come along. It was one of those perfect afternoons that come together effortlessly. They were happy to pick-up the supplies and take me downtown, Kaitlin was happy to host and be descended upon; I was just plain happy.

Riding down the FDR, watching the city fly by on my right, the east river on my left and my best friend in front of me bantering happily with Nelson, I felt as though I was seeing a mirage. I was almost afraid to move for fear it would all melt away. Everything was as it should be, or as I have always dreamed it to be.

Everyone was happy, everyone was here with me. I was peaceful, basking in this vision. Dinner on the Terrace kept me floating in this state. We cooked and laughed and soaked-up the perfect summer evening. Thinking about it, I had to fight the moisture in my eyes. It was all to easy, too good. Life has not given me much of that. Possibility is what I live on, but actually having it is terrifying to hope for.

God how we laughed! We ended-up playing an infantile game, spitting cherry pits over her balcony. Jo and I returned home and kept each other in stitches dancing to Journey and Asian renditions of American pop. I have not laughed like that in ages. That silly, pure laughter. I laugh, but it is always tinged with irony, always with an underlying tragedy to it.

I let go over the last few days, riding a wave of irrational passion and possibility. Rather than slamming me into the beach, it set me down gently. I am calm now, the sky's just opened and as I hang out of my little window watching the torrents, a smile spreads across my face. Even the rain is beautiful right now.

I have not had any great epiphany, I haven't reach some new level of understanding, but somehow floating along I found comfort. What was I running from? Where am I running to? I haven't a clue, but I suppose we work out a lot of things we don't understand when we are sleeping. Perhaps I simply had to run myself ragged until I could sleepwalk myself home.

Nightmares and Escapes

I had another nightmare last night. Not the kind that leaves you terrified, just the kind that make you feel bad.

Again, I was desperately trying to escape. The people in my life were either passively trying to help or indifferent. They did not feel the same sense of urgency that I did, they did not seem to understand and I was unsure who to trust.

I ran into an old man who I served in the army with. I did not recognize him at first, but beneath the lines on his face I saw the familiarity. He seemed so happy to see me, and for some reason, I felt safe and happy seeing him too. He and a woman were trying to sell a stolen helicopter, they obviously had left the military. They woman was not a soldier, perhaps an army wife. She kept trying to apologize to me. I told her, “No, you helped me escape; you helped me escape from that army prison. Don’t apologize to me”. I suppose no one else understood like they did. They made me feel better, but I was still on the lamb. I was still running.

I awoke and was greatly relieved that it was Saturday and I would have sufficient time to recover from this dream. The only problem was, it was actually Thursday. I rushed out of the house to the office.

I was deeply unhappy that day. Though with the closing bell rung, I felt a pep returning to my step. I was just so tired. There is no relief in sight as my job ramps up. I take comfort in the hours I spend away from that place. In those hours I am free. It was with that thought in the back of my mind that I set out to treat that blasted Thursday like it was in fact a weekend day. I had drinks with Em in the East Village, wine with Gus in Tribecca, then a whirlwind evening of bar hopping throughout the city with a rowdy group of EWI members and out of town visitors. I ran through my evening, push push pushing until the morning light let me know that it was time to again relinquish my freedom and go back into the coffin of my work life.

Needless to say, I went too far this time. I was not able to rally and make it through my workday. I can function on very little sleep, but not no sleep. Thankfully, I am really good at what I do, and my track record allows me to take my sick leave when need be.

I hope I find the answers soon. I would like to know what it is I am running from. I am much more prone to fight than flight, so it is with tense curiosity that I look for the headless horseman on my heels.

Running Blind

Dr. Katz told me there was a reason behind my recent sprints through the night. She made me feel so utterly normal.

Sitting in her office, telling her about my late nights and benders, I asked her what it was I was running from. Obviously she did not have an answer for me, they never do, but I still like to treat her like an oracle, hoping one day she will offer me a real pearl.

Then I asked, "Why doesn't anyone ever tell me what to do? Where were the protesters when I dropped out? Where are the naggers telling me I've had enough to drink? My facade of single mindedness must make them all shrug and collectively say, Felicia knows best. Sometimes I wish someone would try to tell me what to do, even though I probably wouldn't listen anyways."

Looking at me thoughtfully from across her desk she said, "Part of me wants to tell you to stop it, but another part of me thinks that you are just working things out for yourself. This could be an opportunity." She asked me that makes me angry, I said no. I told her it is exactly what I would expect her to say, but the bit about it being an opportunity, about me being okay, that actually made me feel better.

We spoke a bit longer and I left feeling like maybe I was simply crashing so that I could find out what was down there, crashing so that I could pick myself back up and start anew.

I also came to the shameful realization that sometimes I still do wish someone would save me. I am old enough to know that there is no one coming, there never has been. You have to save yourself, and sometimes the quickest way up is down.

Lion Tamer

Like someone who acquires a baby lion or tiger or bear cub and then is surprised when it becomes a full grown force to be reckoned with, I have grown a life that threatens to sweep me away!

I created this party, I made this whirlwind. Riding atop the breaker, I wonder how long I can keep it up, and when it carried me away.

I'm not complaining, just contemplating. My life is an endless string of social engagements, dinners, drinks, events and it is fabulous, but how long can I keep it up? This is not a lifestyle Mick Jagger could maintain in the long run.

I need to get back on top. I need to reign it all in, find the quiet and the balance. Perhaps I need to prune my guest list. Or perhaps I should just let it carry me away, perhaps I should ride this wave to the shore. Who knows?

My life is shifting, when the earth shifts there are earthquakes, perhaps this is just my personal tremor.

Catch Me, I'm Falling

Been partying like a rockstar, makes me wonder who the hell I think I am...

Why doesnt anyone ever tell me what to do? Everyone knows that "Felicia knows best", sometimes I wish someone would realize that I don't, I wish someone would reach out to save the hero.

Funny thing is, I probably wouldn't let them even if they tried.

Keystrokes of Thought

I am not an internal processor. I have far too many competing thoughts rushing through my mind to truly examine one in detail. Talking does not solve this dilemma either. Speaking divides my attention between effectively communicating that which I am trying to understand and the comprehension of it. Writing seems to be the only method in which I can truly untangle the brambles of my internal life. Writing has become as essential to my well being as bathing or eating or even breathing at times. I wonder what that says about me, that I cannot think without seeing my thoughts laid out before me. Perhaps I should write about it...

Absconder

I have been lost lately, running as though my life depended on it. There has been no quiet, no calm. I have been unsettled. The unrest within me, the nervous energy, made it impossible to be still, impossible to be quiet. If there is no calm within, how can you possibly sit idle, feeling the torrents surging through your chest?

It was an odd feeling, hearing people comment on how well I seemed to be doing. I felt only an inexplicable urge to push forward, to surround myself with people and chatter. Up was down, my focus and priorities skewed. The guilt about that nipping at my heels as I ran faster and harder. The thing is, eventually you will be caught.

I hit a wall yesterday. My brief periods of sleep were rot with nightmares and anxiety, and the numbness was replaced with sadness. I couldn't see and I crashed.

I let the melancholy wash over me through the day and finally sought solace in a kitchen, with an idealist. I put on my cosmetic armor and went up to Ma Peche to watch Emily cook and wait for her to wrap-up for the night. For some reason, sitting in a restaurant, watching the precise, uncompromising work of a chef, I was able to be still and quiet. I sat for two hours, watching her plate, watching her break down. I was still and silent. The sadness would nip at me and then scurry away. She finished her shift and took me to a quiet bar around the corner.

There I told her about my unrest. I told her about my guilt. In the midst of my mad dash, I was walling myself off from those important to me. Speaking in anecdotes to acquaintances and leaving no time to truly talk to family (both blood relations and dear friends). I was not writing, I was not thinking, I was starving my soul with the iceberg lettuce of activity instead of true sustenance. The disconnection brought guilt and the guilt pushed me on.

Realizing the futility of the life I was living, seeing how far off-course I was floored me when it caught me. On the surface it looked like the life I aspire to: active, social, exciting; but without substance it is vapid.

Like a crazed hunting dog chasing a rabbit into a briar patch, I found myself pursuing the wrong things. I was out of balance and out of energy.

Emily sees me as the woman I want to be. She loves me, but cannot be hurt by my distress. She is not afraid to confront me, but will never judge me. She still holds strong to ideals that age has softened for me. She is like a younger version of myself and it was with her I found my refuge. I was able to stop running.

There was not a monster hot on my trail; it was simply the helpless powerlessness that comes from loving people. I feel it when I look at my brother struggling, when I read about my terminal and broken patients, when I watch Jo fight for the life she deserves, and perhaps, if I am honest, when I realize that as long as my life includes people I care for, my own happiness is at stake. I cannot save them and I can only save myself to a point. I can work hard and attain much of what I want in life, but when it comes to people, what you want doesn’t matter. No amount of work or ambition will enable you to change them.

I was seeking without knowing what I was looking for. I was accepting facade over authenticity. And I was scared.

I think having Joanna here with me shifted my thinking back to a place where I no longer centered around my own core, instead I started trying to center around a pair. I can craft my life, but when you try to start building for two, your foundation will be a shaky one.

How could I not be anxious? I accepted the idea of sharing my life again, but with no guarantee of her participation. You cannot expect the actions of others to match your own. That is a recipe for disappointment and heartache. All you can do is live your life the best way for you with an open invitation for those you love to participate or not.

I don't want a taco truck of a life, constantly chasing the crowds. I want a brick and mortar abode. It will always be open for those I love to come and find laughter, consistency and refuge. Most importantly, no matter who is coming or going, I will always be home. A true home is not a place that resides in a crowd, or family, or a friend or a lover, but inside of me. Trying to find it anywhere else makes me an anxious vagrant, running frantically from one crowded room to another. I somehow forgot that over the last few weeks.

Sitting quietly in my apartment, not a sound or a soul around, I have settled back into myself. I can let go. I do not need to save anyone, that is not my job. I need only to continue building a strong foundation for myself. As MFK Fisher said, "Like most humans, I am hungry...our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it...” It is only after I satiate this hunger in myself I am able to indulge in “one of the pleasantest of all emotions… to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world."

As long as I am wholly me, those I love know where they can find comfort. My life is a beautiful bungalow not a prison. It is exactly what I want it to be and will always be open. It was shuttered these last few weeks, but I am here now. I am smiling and free and ready to welcome and savor each guest who crosses my threshold or to relish it in complete solitude.

When I Grow Old

I guess I have gotten to the age where I no longer say, "when I grow-up", now I think instead about how I want to grow old.

I had a vision of what I would like that to look like yesterday. Jo and I picked up our CSA produce share on 14th Street and met up with Em for a quick drink in an outdoor garden in the East Village. Em proceeded to lead us through the Japanese market, gathering exotic ingredients and a few beautiful squid. From there we wandered over to a fantastic Spanish wine shop Tinto Fino on our way to Kaitlin's apartment. We spent the evening cooking our bounty, sipping our wine and laughing together on Kaitlin's terrace.

Kaitlin rushed off to a date and we proceeded back up to the village for a nightcap. We mused, waxed philosophical and reminisced for a bit before heading back out into the warm summer evening to make our way home. I looked at my amazing girls, listened to the sound of their voices dancing around me and smiled.

I could spend my days this way. Cooking, sharing, living each meal like an event. I think I would like to have nightly dinner parties. Smaller ones during the week, with one or two good friends and endless interesting conversation. I would have larger ones too, the classic dinner parties from my grandparents' era, right down to cocktail hour and after dinner drinks.

I am collecting phenomenal people, they will fill my life like chotchkies fill the homes of old Midwestern women. I have learned that good friends are the most valuable thing one can aspire to have in their life. People are interesting, they are important, and contrary to popular belief, relationships must be cultivated like a garden. It is worth the effort, in the end it makes all the difference. Children grow-up and leave, sometimes husbands do too! Friends, when cared for and tended to, they can last forever.

Yes, I had a vision of a beautiful old woman last night. She has a full, beautiful life, stories of a life well lived and the warmth of love rendering her face luminescent. That is who I want to be when I grow old.

Feed my Eyes, Feed my Soul

New York is my home. Walking down 1st Avenue feels much like walking down the corridor of a large home, padding over to my sister's room in my fuzzy slippers. This place is requires of me only my truest self; it lives within me as much as I in it. Last night we were musing over beers in a dark East Village tavern about our home. Though it is home, that does not mean there is not room in my heart for other cities, other adventures. There is no where else in this country I would move, and I say this as someone who has seen nearly all of it. The world, on the other hand, holds far too many beautiful mysteries to be left unexplored. This lead me back to the exotic places that still linger in the landscape of my mind.

I have seen the beauty of Paris, walking along the Seine. I have seen the wonders of the Rockie Mountains on a crisp spring morning. I have watched the sun dip into the Pacific Ocean, setting the Santa Monica hills ablaze. I have swam in the azure waters of the Caribbean. I have found myself mesmerized by the grandeur of my beloved New York. Beauty feeds a deep place inside of me; I feast on it and succumb to it. When I think of beauty though, the kind that takes your breath away, there is one place that eclipses all others: my desert.

The unexpected bursts of beauty amidst desolation can bring a tear to my eye to this day. I can feel it inside of me: the unceasing desert wind, the purple and red of the sunset, the green jewels of life around the Tigress river that shock your senses as you come atop a sandy hill, even the sea of nothingness that surrounded me as we moved through southern Iraq. The orange and white trucks bustling down the road, the people dressed in flowing robes, the bazaars selling bootleg Micheal Jackson Cd's, all of it both terrifying and enticing in its complete otherness. My heart beats faster at the memory, filling me with both anxiety and longing. Funny though, looking at pictures of that place, it never looks the way I remember. I wonder now if the beauty we are drawn to is somehow reflective of something inside ourselves.

Iraq is a land of contradictions, juxtapositions: beautiful and barren, dangerous and peaceful, fight and flight. I sometimes think my own beauty comes from the same kind of contradiction. I am not the most physically stunning specimen, but there is something about me, like an oasis in a desert that makes me shine in a way that is not as simple as a beautiful face or body. What that thing is, I don't know.

I know that a desert wind blows through me, making me volatile and passionate and ever changing. Out of the currents of past pain grows a spectacular garden of serenity. The deserts of things yet unattained drive me forward. The constant dangers of the world makes me brave and grateful. The desert winds in my soul whisper to me. They tell me to live, live passionately, cherish people, push on despite the seemingly endless expanse of emptiness that sometimes surrounds me. I live in that rugged, beautiful, scary, exciting place, not as a soldier, not as a tourist, but as wild creature.

The wildness of that place speaks to the wild thing inside of me. That is why her beauty reigns supreme, that is why I must never stop seeking life in far away lands. There are pieces of me waiting to be discovered in faraway lands. I found my home in New York, but home is not the end of the journey. Home is the place that gives you the strength and confidence to venture back out, knowing that there will always be a place to which you can fully return.