The assumption that life would wait for me or that I would somehow arrive
in Bangladesh, or on a Turks Island, or a causeway in France, has always been
more of a precarious notion, than any logic assumption on my part. The
adventure, the roll of the dice, sounds so fly - by- the – seat - of- my-
pants, which is exactly the girl I am not, the one I have never even been close
to being. Funny how I could have presumed that part of me, somehow, would ever
change itself. Writing, for me, holds no geographical location, as a cave and
my computer would work just as well (if not better, due to quietness) than my work space and computer do. I am methodical, pragmatic, and, well, the allure of the whole
fly – by - the – seat- of - my-pants life appeals to me because it is
different, new, something I have never been, am still, not. The romantic luxury
of knowing I could be that girl, for a moment, for an unspecified equivalent of
time, for a place I could not pry myself from, foresee my life and self without. I think if that moment should ever arrive for me, the indelible ink would remain wet, just long enough for me to
transform to the fly - by - the - seat- of - my - pants- girl who would be willing to
fly off, in the hope of, whatever. For a moment, a cheap second of a thought, it
all sounds very doable, for a whatever that perhaps is just waiting in the
wings. Waiting for me, to take off, and fly - by - the - seat - of - my -
pants!
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