Those who choose to wander
A gloomy Friday morning pulls me out of bed, calling for coffee. I look in the mirror rubbing the dark circles under my eyes, dehydrated skin and visible lines mark my face and make me feel particularly old this morning, but I tell myself not to judge. When I open the fridge, I realize I am out of milk—A tragedy for a daily latte consumer like me. Too lazy and too cold to take a shower, I throw on some clothes and my mustard-colored beanie — I live in that thing. I start my car, my windshield thermometer reads 42 °F. Caffein on my mind, I am driving down the main road when my trip to the store is interrupted by me spotting a decked-out sprinter van that is pulling into the coffee shop I just passed. I stop in my tracks, turn around, and take it as a sign that my coffee will be had at that coffee shop instead. The reason for my impulsive change of plans is motivated by my obsession with van life; so far, an insatiable dream, lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to act upon. For
