I wrote this during a summer writing class.
A license for adventure and the vivid memory of such can be held in the palm of my anticipating hand. The vibrant battered blue booklet has accompanied me to foreign soils, life lessons, and a yearning for exploration. A youthful inexperienced blonde version of myself inhabits the inside cover like a hermit inhabits a home. If only she knew then where that smile would take her. Each date territorially stamps its place in my continuous timeline like a scar forever remains after stitches. The colorfully faded and smudged ink stains instigate a reverie in the scrapbook of my mind. Like August 23, 2001 and the midnight humidity of Hong Kong. Or July 9, 2002, the date I humbly realized I didn't learn Spanish in the MTC. Or February 3, 2003 and my first encounter with a dread-lock adorned Rasta Far I. With lonesome pages yet to be claimed, my wandering heart pounds in sweet anticipation.
