Into the Wild

I have these dreams of the open road, of frozen tundra and white-bearded trees. I dream of wandering from town to town and place to place, no ties to anybody or anything, just my whim and my wanderlust, the same itch that's bothered me since we got here three years ago. I dream of northern lights and the oppressive silence, of the familiar yet distant forests and the song of the wind.

I want cold, the sharp, bone-cutting cold I used to know. I want the wind to knife through me again and herald the snow, want to shiver under the diamond points of stars in a sky the color of ink. I want to know the wild abandoned freedom of being untethered, if only for a month or two. I want quiet, just me and my thoughts. I want to find life in the tradition of Thoreau, in the bare essentials and in human wandering. Deserts, plains, rolling hills, mountains, tundra, forests, rivers, waterfalls, canyons, I want to know what our country has to offer. I want to quit being a tourist and become a traveler instead. I want to live.

I'll turn off my phone and dream instead, painting pictures on a canvas I could never even hope to fill. And in the quiet hush of midnight, I'll feel like it's right here, my dream. It's close.

I dream of freedom. The closest I can know here on earth.