A backpack, filled with a pair of jeans, an old t-shirt,
and a slurry of other random garments all tucked around
my ukulele, an archaic mechanism of sound with a single
disk present inside playing the sweetest soundtrack of an epic
existential crisis of a 20 something who will soon discover just how
little she really knows about anything, a musical journey from Georgia
to Kansas to Vienna to help propel my movement from Vegas to
Anchorage, three books, two poetry, EAP to dwell in my past
and Emerson to help me “be with” my journey and embrace my future,
one solid novel in hand, one to guide me on why I am on this
journey but surely not to guide me on how, my journey will not end with
me eating the wrong berries, in hindsight perhaps an Eddie Vedder CD
would have been great a juxtaposition for this trip,
my phone, notably absent, an unwelcome character in my heroic tale
of concurring my dependence and pulling my sword of self-identity
from the confines of the romanticized ideal of youthful over-exertion,
a notebook, not large or flashy, no cheesy sentiment of day seizing or
self love plastered on the front, I don’t need the reminder, this
is why I’m here, going there, possibly nowhere at all.
This is my journey.
Its only a dream, a plan, an escape from the dull dread of monotony and
stagnation. Someday I will find my Alaska where Vienna will surely be waiting.