I feel caged, surrounded by these walls; the majority of the time, my mind is cast off elsewhere -- usually to Europe (Prague and Spain and Paris and places of that sort). I feel like if I were just able to travel, really travel, and see what I want to see, then I would be able to write and photograph and think to my full potential...but until such a day comes when I can hop on that plane and not look back, I can't help but wonder if I'll just go through life without any sort of meaning. I don't have the funds for such a trip, or the equipment or the massive stock of empty journals.
I guess, as a writer, the only thing I can do until then is let my characters have the adventures for me.
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