I am three years younger than Alexander the Great. Three years older than John Keats. However I haven’t conquered empires, nor do I write evocative poetry. Instead, I’m on a distant island in the pacific, trying to find a viable soccer field and writing short stories.

I feel more of a boy than a man on days where the wind croons a harsh melody.

I am two years from thirty years old. This is the infancy of my twenty eighth year. The twelfth day— followed soon by the twelfth night.

I am returning to bold dreams the way a stubborn worm bursts through hard packed dirt. A continuous wriggling of my being— simply because it is my nature to do so. To be inactive is a denial of myself.

For someone that crafts words with care upon the page. I have struggled to express the emotions that live within my chest. I can articulate the feelings— and where they might spring from. But to feel? That is a skill that has faded in the past two years. I feel akin to the scarecrow hanging in the field— stiff posture, but little substance.

Might it be that my feelings are an artificially dammed well. There is a depth and ferocity to them that is obscured by mindless activities. The shallow waters can still drown the careless as easily as the deep.

But I am grateful that in this next stage— I have not suddenly transformed into a foreign entity. I have not escaped across the world to become a different person. I possess the same core— and if you look upon me, you will recognize someone you have seen before. Although perhaps with more layers.