End of the Road
At the very tip of a South Boston peninsula town, the Yuengling flows from the tap of a basement bar called Jo's Nautical Bar. The ceiling is low and the lights are dim over dusty fishing gear that line the walls. A few low murmurs led my wandering eyes to dusty board games and leather couches which seemed ready to tell stories. Outside, a giant windmill stands still in the setting sun looking out toward the distant Boston skyline. Every so often, I need to broaden the map that exists in my head. It's not just about adventure. It's about figuring out what my mind is capable of creating. Now, when I walk along the beach near my home, I look out to the windmill in the infinite horizon and can smell the musty basement. I can see the blue and white buoy covered in dust next to a high top table that peeks out the small window slits.
I've only recently been able to admit to the undeniable fact that my work exists in creating. For having succeeded at the institutionalized path that led me away from creativity and wonder, this is absolutely terrifying and freeing. While I find myself not doing as well in the early carved out life I've made, my mind is beginning to find what lies at the end of the road again and it's become clear that there is no way to unsee it.