Free.

I get jealous of writers. Perhaps more aptly, their characters, their shameless (if not flawless) display of combinations of letters and words. I walk into bookstores and mock them slightly, turning up my nose at the raised print on the covers, the way the books smell so new when you flip through them-- all of the possible adventures that begin and end within 50000 words. I pretend like this may not be what I have always yearned for-- an absolute adventure, to any ends, with no confines. I like adventure, I like change-- my roommate told me I foster it, crave it (much like the unfortunate caffeine addiction I seem to have developed.) Maybe it is not so much the adventure that I love as it is the possibility, unrestrained, that at any moment (barring financial restraints) I am absolutely FREE.

I like this.