I never liked shoes, or baths, or using cutlery, even as a kid.
Things that came between, that blocked, that cleaned me of the earth.
I never liked houses, or wardrobes, or the feel of cold cement on my feet.
Things that promised solidity, permanency, bills.
When I was small I had a handmade book held together with string.
It contained all my blueprints to the houses I would live in –
buses, tree houses, boats.
It held a mapped out travel itinerary of all the 143 countries
I would hitchhike through when I was no longer a captive child,
and a (not so) appropriate “adventure budget” of two million dollars, I was seven.
I would ask my mother to let me runaway and not cry for me,
Because my need for freedom, quickly surpassed my need for love
(except my mothers, I knew I’d have hers wherever I went).
I would dream up adventure, create it, demand it.
At seven years old, I knew the desires of the adult within.
What I’m telling you is to listen to your seven-year-old self.
They were ruthlessly fierce with the dreams you still hold dear at night.