I drove home today. The freeways from Ashland, OH to Livonia, MI are lined with flat, dead farmland, "Adult" stores, antique malls (the nasty kind), and fast food. In short, it is three hours of misery. Especially when you have the Les Mis soundtrack playing. And you lose your voice midway through Eponine's "On My Own," which makes you realize you can't even belt out your troubles. Needless to say at this point, today's been rough.
In two months, I will be living for my two week trip to London, Paris, Prague, and Berlin. In six months, I'll be heading to London. I'm counting down now.
I've felt for some time now that the Midwest is the last place on earth I would choose to live - there is so little that is poetic here, so little history and culture. It is hard for me to sit down and try to write about people I've never met and places I've never been while I'm holed up in my dorm room, buried under piles of homework, watching it snow or rain or both out in the maintenance parking lot. The most interesting thing I can see from my window in Andrews Hall is the crowd of smokers outside of Buffalo Wild Wings. With such inspiration, it's hard to imagine why writing about life and death and love and adventure is difficult. I have an imagination, but even my creativity needs a muse or two now and then.
That's why I'm counting down. I need to be in places worthy of being written about. I hope London turns out to be everything I'm dreaming of and that Europe becomes a home for me.
I'm going to be continuing my Paris-themed reading agenda. I've got Zola and Dumas to tackle this break - Zola's The Fortune of the Rougons and Dumas's The Three Musketeers (finally! It's awful that I haven't read it yet).
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