Sight Seeing by Nicole Lambe I woke up on August 2nd, 2018 at 3:05am to bright lights being thrust on by my mother. Hastily, I dragged myself out of bed, conscious of moving my luggage off the floor and into the hall before it got in the way, and slipping on my new Birkenstocks. We had a flight to catch soon, and at 3:15am it was difficult to see, even for someone with full vision. Grasping my father’s hand, I lead him through the dimly lit hallway down into the lobby. We counted the steps as we went down like we had for the entire week we spent in Sorrento. There were fourteen steps. Not more, not less. Remembering this could mean very little to the common traveller, but to us, it meant that the day would go by smoothly—with no obstacles or injury. He had become familiar with the place and now we were about to move to uncharted territory. New steps to count, new voices to learn, new rooms to get accustomed too. “Ready to go, Frank?” Our driver asked my father
The other night, a poet asked me if I was a writer, and I stood there and froze at his simple but complicated question. The word hit me with the force of a mass of bricks. I suddenly stopped and thought, am I a writer? The word felt too good for me, like it was insulting of me to call myself that considering all to the great living and lived writers, authors, poets. Am I a writer? Well, to me no, I didn't think I could call myself that, it felt too good for me. I once read this book, "My Salinger Year" by Joanna Rakoff to be exact, and one of my favourite quotes from it explained that being able to call yourself a writer takes one thing — you must write. It's been a while since I picked up that pen, and I'm sitting here with the question lingering in my head, can I still call myself that? I want to, but life just gets so busy and it takes all the time it can get. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to feel like
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