storyteller in wanderlust

Blackout curtains stalled the ability to ascertain my location and disposition.

It took seconds to figure out in the dark - I was wearing a thin Delta shirt, complimentary of some care package. My bags had already left for Austin and I was at a hotel in Minneapolis in exchange for airline dollars.

And last night, I remembered I went to the movies alone with a big bucket of popcorn. Large, and in charge.

Butter?, the kid behind the counter asked.

Sure, I replied.

Hours later, under the sheet, I felt around for my iPhone and checked the time, blinded in the darkness by the bright screen. The trick was to side-angle the device and use one eye to make out the digits.

I remembered not to drink out of the cup carrying my clear contacts. There had been no saline solution in the small zip-up bag. Tap water could sting my iris in the morning; saliva over the sink before insert would have to be the savior.

Close up: only 5:01 a.m. I went back to sleep.

Baby sharks, a stifled scream and grandparents were part of my normally crazy dreams that seemed so vivid then dissipated as quickly. What did they signify?

I was always looking at the meaning, the purpose and the symbolism of things. I was in a constant search, residing in my restlessness, curiosity and wanderlust.

It left me staring at a wall of Legos at the Mall of America before I decided on buying that movie ticket. I remembered playing with those small red and yellow blocks as a child, creating stories along the way. I looked at all the building blocks and happy kids around me, and smiled wistfully thinking about the characters they would each grow up to be.