When I was younger, life seemed so easy. Writing seemed easier; I was young, naive, restless, and wild. Uninhibited, never self-conscious, filled with thoughts, ideas, and seemingly endless inspiration. I felt comfortable documenting every thought, emotion, and experience, completely unfiltered and uncensored. All my random, empty thoughts, subtleties, and obscure observations, often conveyed in riddles or rhymes.
When I was younger, no older than 16 years of age, I would seek out my own adventures. I foolishly left my camera behind out of fear that someone might find the pictures. Instead, I brought along only a days worth of food, and my writing notebook.
I was a habitual trespasser; wandering into places most people rarely think about, and never visit. I found these places inspiring, often surreal. To think that I was all alone in a strange place I had never been before. All alone, in a place that had been abandoned, forgotten, or neglected.
I never told anyone where I was going, not even my parents; I would only promise to be safe and return home at a specific time. Looking back, it seems some things never change.