Most likely you’ll find me hiking up a mountain with the most essential things for survival, a writer can think of. A couple of books, a notebook I carry with me everywhere, and supplies of coffee to last me a year. On the off chance, I am stuck in a concrete jungle, my dog Dio and I bicker over who gets to take the best spot on our couch; I write a story or two; eye my longboard that collects dust; drink large amounts of coffee, and struggle to win the eternal race of finishing my work-related assignments on time.
More or less, an ordinary life.
Except that I don’t handle well not being on the constant move, but you’ll notice I love the feeling of stillness. I would rather sleep in a tent alone than have a comfy bed and not be able to spend time in nature. I prefer to eat something sweet before a meal, and on occasion, I would eat two desserts for dinner and call it a night. I am quiet, yet you’ll notice I’m loud once we become friends.
I like to tell everyday stories about the places I go and the people I meet. But more often than I’d like to admit, I turn those closest to me into the protagonists of my stories.
For years I was searching for a place to call home. I was lucky to have found it not in one, but many most unexpected places. It was this search for a home that taught me not to run from places. I have learnt the hard way that when you are on the run, the tiniest of obstacles takes on dramatic proportions, and you inevitably choose the wrong way.
In a way, these adventures are simple reminders not to forget to tell these stories I think would interest those friends of mine who are scattered across the world.