on an island in the middle of the sea.

In an effort to prepare for my one-way departure to New Zealand, I checked out three pieces of travel literature from the library today. As I read them, the excitement pumps through my veins and my hands start to shake a little against the pages. I am leaving everything for nothing, and nothing is the thing from which you build something again, until that something finally becomes an everything. Then you leave all of that behind and start from scratch - an empty piece of paper, a blinking cursor, a post-it note to-do list of nothing to do at all.

These narratives are both liberating and frightening to me, and I try to breathe through them the same way you breathe through the pain of ripping off a sticky bandage on your arm. My home has become redundant to me. I feel like I'm living the best years of my life over in rewind and everything is out of order and with each passing second I only get more and more naive, more scared, more little (this is especially angering to me since I have worked years to get to my diminutive height of 5'3"). So I'm siding with the books on this one, and I hope they inform me and give me strength and maybe even offer me new ways of writing my own narrative as Marie and I set off to discover the fiordland.