Now in My Twenties

I have arrived. Through the turbulence of my flight, the continuous threat of a bad rainstorm driving in my rental car, the menace of my phone slash GPS slash lifeline dying and leaving me with no direction, and the constant fear that I would just zip down the treacherous but magnificent curves of the mountain (having never driven mountainside before), past all of that, I finally made it.             Though my travel must have lasted only about 5 hours (approximately 2 hours flying, 3 hours driving), I arrived in such a tired state. For all my fatigue, the beauty of this place did not go past me. In fact, it was one of my dangers as I was driving; I must confess it was sometimes difficult to keep my eyes on the road as they were too busy consuming the loveliness of the vista. In addition, my rental company had given me a complimentary upgrade to a 2018 Chevy Impala. Imagine that, in a sleek, black car, shades on, beaut...

Though I am a true writer, I think it is important I say this: writing is not fun. I doubt it ever will be. It is lonesome, frustrating, difficult and all-consuming. So why do I do it? Why do I spend hours of my time miserably trying to write down those perfect words? Why do I put myself through something that gives me total unrest? Because my dear, sweet reader, I will suffer all the more if I do not. Writing, in any way, shape or form, forces us to face our thoughts. That is the purpose. Our thoughts are born in our head, pushed down our neck, sliver down the arm, onto the fingers, through the pen and finally onto paper. Once there, we cannot escape them. We cannot deny them. Whether good or bad, smart or dumb, those words are our thoughts. No one else can think them but us. The good news is that writing our thoughts is an immediate release of pressure. Almost like they were trying to escape our heads in the first place. I cannot sit idly by while these bionic, superchar...