A year off

This is like the most fun time for me to write posts. Because I'm so damaged. Doubting myself, hating myself, trying to put myself down with another dose of whatever it takes to get numb. I'm out of any inspiration, though. Still, I can tell you one thing. I wish sometimes I wasn't the overachiever I was raised to be. I dream of that year off. When I'll hit the road with a backpack. And wash my other change of clothes in hostels and take tons of pictures and post them for my friends to see in an African internet cafe. And just sweep books with people on the train. Sleep in the grass in Italy and get sunburned in Spain and have a drink under a bridge with the weirdos or walk amazing museums in dirty sandals. I want my year off so that I can learn to sky once again. To fall in the snow and laugh it off, to feel my cheeks burning and my legs itching. To pick grapes in the autumn and flowers in spring. To make my cat not miss me everyday. To have every single aunt ask me what am I going to do with my life and not be referring to a man. To get my hair dirty in the rain and sit at the bar until 2 pm driving people crazy and making them laugh at the same time. To have cheesy puffs for lunch and beer for dinner and never worry anyone's concerned about my weight. To meet a tall dark stranger and spend days in bed. To have him cook me breakfast and quietly walk out the door. To see Rome and Paris and especially Lima. To be a monk and a slut and to dance in the streets. I want it all. All of it. I want my damn year off. No PhD, no mommy, no house to clean. Just me and a backpack under the sky.