Chapter 1

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Life is strange. Sometimes when your world is falling apart, something comes to catch you. Sometimes nothing catches your fall. Sometimes when everything seems to be going right for once, the universe tries to ruin that and nothing seems to make sense. But that's just life I guess.

I want to understand though. I'm not one of those people who give up easily. I want to explore everything I can. I want to open my mind up. I want to know why things happen. I want to know what's going to happen. Am I asking too much?

After trying all the drugs in the past few years, I still have come to the conclusion that there is more to life than this. These years have been silly, carefree, dangerous, and I don't regret them, but I'm 24 now. Maybe it's time to grow up.

How I am going to grow up, I am not completely sure of yet. My head is still plagued by years of depression and spiraling anxiety coupled with drugs and cigarettes. Years of feeling alone in crowded rooms. Years spent writing songs in my room. Music, that's what I really want to do.

I used to think that by now, 1967, I would be traveling, singing, meeting people, but I'm not. I'm still here in lousy New York. And I'm sad because I know I'm the only one stopping myself.

"Abigail,", my mom calls from the kitchen, "we need to talk.". Great.

I begrudgingly walk up the passage and into the kitchen. "Yes?", I say, slightly scared at what is to come next.

The look of confusion must be evident on my face because my mom says "Don't worry, nothing bad, just wanted to talk to you about something.".

I nod. What could she possibly want to say to me? She is part of the reason I spiraled into my years of isolation.

"Well, I know things haven't been easy on you since your dad died", she starts. I pang of pain hits my heart remembering his loss a few years before. It was when we lived in England, the only place I can truly call home. "and I was hoping that by now you would have moved on a bit, but you seem to still be here by yourself."

"Good observation, mom." I say, sarcastically.

She ignores my cynical attitude though. "Look, all I'm trying to say is that I want you to be happy and clearly you aren't. I know you always wanted to travel and I've been trying to keep this a secret for your birthday, but I thought it would be better to tell you now so that you can plan.".

"Wait, what do you - ", I say, not quite believing what I think is happening.

"I've saved up money for the past few years, enough to send you on a trip somewhere. I wasn't sure because I know you aren't stable, but I feel like travel will do you good.", she says.

My mind is racing. This can't be happening. This is all I've wanted. "Are you serious?".

"Of course." She smiles to herself, obviously pleased by my enthusiasm.

"But where would I go?" I ask.

"Well that's up for you to decide. I want this to be special for you." She replies.

Half of me feels like she wants to get me out of the house and the other half doesn't care. This is my chance to go to the place I've been fascinated with for years. A place where I feel that I can truly open my mind and explore everything. "India." I say, the word tingles on my lips as I say it. I never thought that I would ever even have a chance of traveling to India.

My mom smiles. "I thought you'd say that. We just need to plan it out. I wanted to tell you now so that you could plan it for next year and I know this might be a lot to take in, but would 6 months be okay for you?"

I'm shocked. Why is my mom being so nice to me? "Uh, yes of course it's okay."

"Um, well I'll go and call to book for a flight. Why don't you figure out where exactly you want to go?" She says uncertainly. She's not used to me being so easy to talk to.

I practically skip to my room with a smile on my face. I don't even need to plan what I want to do. I know. I've always wanted to learn about meditation and finding inner peace. The only problem is that I don't know where to do it. I guess this means that tomorrow I am off to the travel agency. The quicker I get this planned, the better.

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