To be honest, I don’t have much of a life. I get up every day, sit in a cubicle for eight hours typing things into databases, go home and watch a movie, maybe read a book. Rinse and repeat, week in, week out. Once in a while I’ll hang out with a buddy of mine from college, or hit a bar with a couple of the guys from the fifth floor; I go out to dinner most weekends; I use my vacation every year to go back and see my family. I’ve never been in a serious relationship, and I’m not seeing anybody now.

I don’t hate my life, but then I can’t really say I like it, either. It’s like there’s something missing, but I can’t put my finger on what.

I think it might be the city. Nobody here cares about you, and if you don’t get in their face they’re not even going to acknowledge you exist. It’s like a machine that sucks up people’s souls while they live out their little lives in their repetitive little routines.

Or maybe it isn’t —maybe the city is fine and it’s just me that feels that way. Truth is,  I’ve never lived in a small town, and the few times I went camping it didn’t feel as freeing as I thought it would.

I do want to go places, that I’m sure of. Somewhere fantastic and exotic, definitely, but I can’t decide where it is I should go. I spend a lot of time reading travelogues, looking for that perfect place for when I’ve saved up enough for a big vacation, but so far I haven’t found it. It’s out there, I can tell, I’m just not sure where. Kind of frustrating.

Actually, I do have one other hobby, but it’s kind of embarrassing. I like painting. Well, that’s not exactly true; it’s not the painting that’s fun, it’s imagining landscapes to paint.

This sounds silly, but I’m kind of trying to paint the places I want to go, since I can’t find a tour to take me there. Like maybe if I can’t go to the places I’m envisioning to take a photo, getting it down on canvas is the next best thing.

I’m not really much of an artist, though. The only time the places look right is when I dream about them.