A small town, full of people with the greatest of ambitions. It's happy here. The trees fill the vast amount of land surrounding me, calling out for adventure. Its never dull, unless forced to be. Every corner a different theme, a different lifestyle. Unique, in the greatest of ways, a step in the desert, the next in a forest. Each with its own stories. Yeah, its happy here. Bonfires, with memories of the same nonsense I’ve come to love. Appearing in what it seems, a continuous run for more. More taste of the sun, climbing mountains to come closer, to grasp it with my adolescent fingertips.

It's dry here, like a deserted town begging on its knees for company, a single stranger to graze upon its bare land. But we give it all we can, with the continuous movement, cravings for more, more adventure.

It's happy here. Fresh air and pollinating trees bringing their bloom to the brightest of possible colors. Bursting the swift scent of fresh rain on the solid concrete in the spring. Stinging my throat from the ice cold air in the winter, risking not to breathe. The dead grime of moss and leaves, perfectly placed on the ground after pulled from the trees in fall. Gardens of pure and innocent life roam the yards of quiet streets. Variety of peachy plants pleading for attention in the dry summers, sometimes hotter than hell. But it stops only the weak, for these cravings of adventure trace maps of desired places to go. Into the trees, the mysterious waters of unnamed lakes, the lush evergreens with the minty taste on the tip of my tongue. Never stop moving on. There's always another trail to venture.

Wanderlust, the word I wish had been invented here, for it describes all my people: the wanting to adventure. The forests of lost lands run along with the rivers and seamless bodies of water. Gazing at a sky full of stars, casting their potential with glistening lights.

It's happy here. Horses roam the plains, for I take them to my favorite places. We go to the dark caves, dripping with cold, spine-tingling droplets. We go to the fields to run, and never stop. Let the freedom of wind take us.

I’m free here. Happy as a clam, or sad like the man on the street whose lost everything. This place accepts only the purest of people. The real, not the fake. There's a simple abundance of boredom that can change all the matter. It make tables turn, thoughts run through my twisted mind. Thoughts of the unknown, the inexistent abyss. Thoughts of more, more, more.

It's happy here. A place where a single piece of wood can be made into a masterpiece. Inventions of creative intentions blow this city to the public. Gaining achievements to level to the next big thing. Nights of dancing in the rain, yelling to the clouds for more. Every little bit of a memory is appreciated. Longed for. The call for the end has never come, and that's why I’ve battled the wanting for change, and settled for home.