I spent all yesterday morning indoors. As I walked out late in the evening and squeezed through the huddled masses Union Square, I felt slightly disconnected. Underneath the throng in the bustling subway, a troubadour serenaded the crowd and lamented regrets about how the only guarantee in life is death. While I listened to his aria fade and watched the blur of graffiti pass by from the moving train, I remembered the phrases carpe viem, memento mori, tempus fugit and carpe diem.
I once lived as a country mouse in my poor home when a vagabond friend, a London mouse, inspired me to live life, travel, and see the world. I left a modest life in the Midwest for the hustle and bustle of the east coast, and even visited my friend in the UK. I have yet to explore many more places, including Scotland and still much of the States.
Dear Time, I missed traveling to Berlin and Portugal in 2010 because I mistakenly thought you were abundant. Now every alarm clock in NYC blares in my head, heeding me to travel more in 2011 and perhaps play my little pink guitar in some strange cities. I relish a road trip across America, Jack Kerouac style, so I may likewise chronicle my adventures. I want to go to San Francisco, kiss my sister, hug my nephews, and wear red sunflowers in my hair. I desire a hearty brunch with my grandmother and her lively old friends with a side of flavorful laughter followed by drinks and debauchery with familiar faces in Chicago. I long to jam at a High Voltage night in Los Angeles and to promenade down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Continue reading