I just wanted to be in a better place than I was when I wasn’t writing. If I just looked at everything a little differently, if I fully accepted the artist within me, if I leaned into my eccentricities, if I saw all the colors in their most vivid fashion, if I embraced the kaleidoscope at last, I could be there. It meant taking a step away from a normal life, but hadn’t I already moved too far away from it? Where was I anyway? I was all alone on this beach, far away from home, watching strangers, making up stories about them. Wasn’t I already there?
