I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Something about the road draws me near. I’ve been wanting to leave for a long time and when I put it on the backburner, my thoughts return to the road. Perhaps my destiny is calling me. Whatever the case, I don’t think I’ll be happy until I’ve been out there. I’m not finding the truth here, so it may be somewhere else. I go to find out and find myself.

I was right. I wasn’t happy until I went out there. Wanderlust has ben a continual trait of mine, and since writing this journal entry I haven’t managed to live in the same place for more than three years. I get bored and feel the need to see somewhere new. The bad news is I never feel like I’m really at home. The good news is I have friends everywhere.