Out of town, doing what I’m supposed to. Writing and relaxing, possibly even some reading. Who would have thought I’d find time to read again? Some long anticipated Hemingway, absorbed in the sunlight besides a pool. Such is life this week, and I like it.
An offer comes to me while enjoying this escape, and offer appropriate in nature, a more lengthy escape. A chance to clear my head, find myself completely, away from obligation and duty.
Move to St. Thomas. Tend bar in a tropical paradise, finish the novel, find peace. It seems such a fantasy, and yet, the more I consider it, the more I feel this is exactly what I need. Even, dare I say, what I’m supposed to do?
So much would need to be done, I plot and plan out what could make this idea reality. So many things that I’d already intended to do.
The old familiar surge of hope and desire fills me up as I realise, I want to make this true.
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