When I'm lost in thoughts of invoices and paperwork, drowning in the last few gurgling gasps for air, it creeps in. A murderous smile, anxious adrenaline, the taste of blood when you bite your lip in concentration. It poisons my thoughts and runs through my veins stiff with stress. The rebellious streak of running from everything. For the four wheeled adventures of sunsets, camp fires, homegrown fruit and absolutely no deadlines. 

I carry round that same itch inside me. I've carried it since adolescence, through electric nights and slurry dreams. Only my outlet has changed - I used to keep books cramped with tiny writing. Scribbling. Desperate words that squeezed through my fists into paper that was far too small. I still keep those parts of me close by, moved around from home to home and city to city. I find myself staring out windows, as far as my eyes can stretch at miles of endless fields and woods. How I long so greatly to be wild. Films that steal my imagination and stiffen my lungs. I dream of another place - wild places. And I am almost certain there is more than this. 

I'm a bird in a cage, who paces around - the door wide open. The freedom mocks me with clean air, abundant time and possibilities, and all I while I still dream of life outside the cage. 


Flickr Photostream

Twitter Updates

Meet The Author