My Junk Journal

  I love to travel. I forget how much until I go again. Did I pack my toothbrush? Flying out of the last airport, the last leg of my journey, my head pressed firmly against the back of the seat as the plane lifts its nose up, toward the sky at speeds I cannot control. I can’t help but wonder once again; what is that building over yonder, who lives in that neighborhood, where does that road begin and where does it end and will it ever get easier to get through security? No, I am not trying to divert my attention away from the fact that I am a little…