So, I kinda want to be a hippie.
Not one of these crunchy assholes who doesn’t bathe and spends the summer following Phish, but an old-school-Let’s-Sell-Our-Shit-And-Hit-The-Hippie-Trail-From-Istanbul-To-India beatniks.
I want to get tan again. Brown sugar with dirty soles and an open soul.
I want my hair to be wild and free like all good things.
I want to eat street food straight from the cart and tap my toes to melodies composed by street musicians.
I want to write. Oh God, I want to write — on sunsplashed beaches, in cafes during monsoons, in lush courtyards and in sweltering rooms as sweat trickles down my neck.
I want to dance while under the influence of local liquor, spinning and giggling into the wee hours.
I want to lay out under the stars and cuddle by a roaring bonfire.
I want to wear chunky jewelry and maybe even get a tattoo. Small and discreet — a secret souvenir from a foreign land.
I want to ride on crowded, shaky trains and visits temples, mosques and bazaars. I want to meet people from all over the world, make new friends and learn as much as I can.
I want to bring my laptop, iPod and camera and document the whole thing for posterity, for my children, for the world, for myself.
I want to Go. Capital G — anywhere, everywhere, wherever.
Just leave and see what’s out there. Go for the best possible reason — because it’s out there. Because it exists. Because I can.