What do I want? I’m just getting older. And I want to see more of the world. I want to climb mountains and catch the Sun’s light refracting and exploding across our atmosphere. I want to see the horizon flat in front of me on an abandoned road, the dust of desert whipping past my wheels.
I want to see the fog of the Milky Way’s profile with the naked eye and grasp the earth as I imagine the speed we move in through the universe, breakneck and beautiful. I want to run across Bolivia's Uyuni salt flats, marveling at the perfect reflection of sky beneath me. Stomping across the sheen of my own feet.
I want to travel across the ocean and sample every brew in every small tavern, take in that warmth, and connect. Connect with someone, anyone, and feel that second of recognition. We get each other, and that makes this worth it. This. This stool, my hand, my lungs, my limbs. They’re small but the scale doesn’t matter because the grandiose wonder I feel right now is straight up Dr. Whovian.
If I had a cabin, I’d cut up peasant bread and fresh tomatoes on a wooden butcher block. Smell that high altitude and self-inflicted solitude, and timber in a stone fireplace. I’m pretty simple. I’m pretty trite. I write so I can grasp these things in my mind. Grasp that place between adventure and peace. To take it all in and when I revert to dust, leave my subtle prints, like dead star whose light continues to travel through the fabric of space.
That’s what I want.
