Victim of Poetry

I wasn't sure at first. Go to India? Why? What would I do there? I am not the type of girl who follows a man. I'm not the type of girl who is naturally good at relationships. Romance, yes. If it were a class, I would get an A. Long term partners, I would fail miserably, and then the instructor would go out of her way to advise me to focus on other subjects. Life had always come between me and my partners, and when it did, I would often welcome it. 

Now here I was, puppy drooling hopeless slap happy over some boy I had known less than 3 months. Danger! Danger! The warning bells were going off, and as usual I ignored them. I was a victim of poetry and idealism. He had offered me something that no one else had before. He wasn't persuading me with silly promises, or lavish dreams, stability, or flowers. All he offered was an opportunity, a chance to be and live in this strange country, and perhaps find another path for myself. He offered me friendship and freedom.


So I find myself subleasing my Portland apartment, donating and selling half of my clothes, putting work on hold, and packing a single suitcase for what is sure to be the best sort of adventure. The kind of adventure where nearly everything is on the line. Damn poetry!