I am not sure if it’s the picturesque field, the mysterious forest, or the way the light hits the patio in the late afternoon, but my backyard resonates with all my internal curiosities. I sit on my patio, the cool breeze swirling, and write about my iconoclastic nature. I get a waft of the chlorine from the pool and it takes me back. Back to the days when every single day was great and I was too ignorant to not have a smile plastered on my face. I still long for the days day where its seventy degrees with a light breeze and there is just one cloud in the sky, just so I know I am not dreaming. The cool touch of the stone patio feels like the cool sand between my toes at the beach, but also resembles the relief I get when taking off my ski boots in the Poconos. This backyard can take me anywhere – it’s rather absurd. I cherish this backyard as much as a child loves their puppy or a squirrel loves their acorns. I never run out of ideas when writing in this realm; I have poems ranging from pine cones to the blue sky to contrasting the aesthetics of the landscape during the four seasons. I believe that I can create here because there is not the commotion that manifests itself in every other setting of my life. This feels more genuine than sitting on a computer with the million distractions it provides and simultaneously writing the most important essay of my life – not exactly my cup of tea. Perhaps my imagination needs serenity for it to be birthed; maybe it just needs information.
I take a supreme interest in learning, but not just conventionally. If it is not the Wall Street Journal Weekend Edition, then most likely I am submersing myself into the vastest information source we have – the internet. I find it necessary to teach myself anything in which I find a spontaneous
