some nights i curl in bed and under the sheets, mourning the passing of lives i could be living if i were born someplace else, some life else. i don't exactly know what it is that i'm missing out but i look at the lives of my favourite photographers, the adventures they are on and i sob myself senseless. have you ever wanted to just go out there to live and really live? to break out into songs on the pavement and smile at everybody that goes past; to crash into fields of grass and flowers and look dreamy-eyed into the countenance of your lover;  to embrace the whirling autumn wind whilst reading at your favourite cafe, with the stone-cobbled pavements, complete with baroque chairs and fancy saucers; don't you want to fall crazily in love and have it knock your world upside down, throwing every carefully calculated plan out the window? don't you want to kick off your clothes and dive into icy cold winter waters? what does this summer place have to offer that i'm missing out on?

i know i could sit here and write about it all day, live marginally the lives i thirst for through books and photographs. but deep within the recesses of my heart i know, this boldness is something i do not have. this is what is missing- that nothing's wrong with this place. it's just me.

i don't know about you but, that really just kills me every single time.