Zion Hines

Life isn't about where you end up.

No more than eighty pages long, about a hand's length and thin enough to grasp between my thumb and index finger, there lay a black book. Labelled "Dream Notebook," this notebook once belonged to my mother, who I'd borrowed it from for some time. That is to say, it was handed down to me about 15 years ago, when I was 10. I was finally cleaning my room - like any typical mid 20's live-in child, my stagnant life had made me grow complacent with the state of my living area. Unfortunately, this clutter was rooted in a deeper issue, however.