the dream of alaska

Moving to Alaska is one of my dreams. It's a beautiful land. In particular, I want to move to the Inside Passage, in Sitka or Ketchikan. This dream was forged in 2007. In 2009, this dream returned with full vigor. I wrote in my journal:

The only girl I've ever loved is getting married in a matter of hours, right down the street from my house. In the very same place where I work. In the very same room where we would cuddle and kiss and contemplate the future. How ironic: where our dreams were forged, there they shall die. Though, in truth, they died long ago. Her dream of "us" died before mine followed suit; but my dream--empty as it was--eventually withered and died, and it was replaced with yet another dream: Alaska. Our dreams do not emerge out of a vacuum; they are formed and created, building upon their forefathers as a foundation. My dream of Alaska emerged out of my pain over losing her. Alaska symbolized escape. A quarter of a world away, far from all the poisonous memories that assaulted me. And at the same time, Alaska's weather reflected my own hell-worn heart: cold, dreary, and as the rain would fall, so would my tears. She is getting married today and the dream of Alaska moves on, though it has evolved. Alaska no longer promises escape but a new beginning. And Alaska is not yearned-for out of despair but, rather, from a hope for a better life. And Alaska's dreary weather, which was a reflection of my heart, is now seen as beautiful and desirable. When I crave Alaska, I crave a new life, and my mind is filled with fantasies about my adventures there. Right now I am an awkward little man with no future and few friends and few things to hold onto.

Dylan and I went to Borders last night after hitting up the bar, and we looked at books on Alaska. I told him, "I want to move to Alaska," and he told me, "If you commit yourself to it, then you can make it happen." He's right. If I really want to move to Sitka or Ketchikan, I indeed can.