I'm much too pulled together for six o'clock in the morning, but thanks to a little three year old, i've been up for an hour and I'm ready for my big Paris debut. I have a tiny purple hairtie from an early rising princess as a sign of her unfailing love. I smell remotely of vomit from a six month old's breakfast and I've had enough kisses and big squeezes from little hands to last me the flight to Paris.
The wait in the airport is littered with Portuguese, French, and English and filled with travel weary passengers. I find myself shying away from the English. I keep my mouth closed and get mistaken for Portuguese by the French and as French by the Portuguese. It makes me feel a little mysterious, like an enigma. I lets me think about disappearing in Europe. How I could run from everything i know and be completely content living the nomad lifestyle. But then I think about the people waiting for me in Paris, which makes me stand up and get in the right line for my flight.
These words give me comfort. They've been swirling around in my head waiting to get out. I've given into their demands and picked up a pen and paper. I write with the intent of others reading this, otherwise they words become those of a love sick 8th grader pouring her heart our to her diary. But maybe that's all these are. I long for the comfort of my computer keys, dirty from travel and worn from use, but instead the plastic pen and ever shrinking napkin will have to do.
I have an idea that's been growing inside of me for the past few weeks. It started as a little seed, just popped into my mind a few weeks ago and has turning into a carnivorous addiction, demanding my time and commandeering my thoughts. It's an idea for the future that is missing details but a plan none the less. I want to write. The need to express myself in the written word is like an addiction. I see someone and lines of description jump into my head, waiting for someone else to hear them. don't think this is a passing fad or a new trend in my life. I think this is what i want to do. So much so that medical school is a mere memory Science is just a doorway to a discovery of new words and stories. I've thought this new love has grown because of the inability to completely express myself to non-native english speakers. Maybe that's all it is, but the joy of writing is hard to ignore. Unlike science its results are automatic, they come immediately. And I thin i like that. The details are not to be worried about, i'm sure someone will take a biochemistry degreed writer. Until then I have time to dream and plenty of new adventures providing fodder for my next cave-in to this addiction...
And now we are back into the real world. The words are still true, and the addiction is still hungry...
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