Alaska was a place I'd been fascinated with since I was young. My parents were watching

a movie and my house got so big when I saw the Northern Lights. I think it's even my

first memory. Though shimmering blue and green lights, it seemed extra-terrestrial. Apparently

I would shout twinkle twinkle at my parents until they put the movie on. I could never

remember what the movie was. Back home, the roof of my childhood bedroom was painted

to replicate the Northern Lights above me. That had even taped green and blue fairy lights

to the ceiling for me to act as night lights. Maybe fascinated wasn't the right word. Obsessed?

The way a child will find one thing and cling onto it for dear life. Whether it's a stuffed

animal or a blanket, if you lose it, you lose that safety you're associated with it.

Growing up, I kept my love for the place alive and well, extending it beyond just a light

side known. Never thought it was a place I'd actually find myself. It seemed like some

distant world far beyond my galaxy. A pipe dreamer best. But time marches on and you get

older. You start realising there's less and less holding you back. You give yourself

these allowances, things you tell yourself to keep you from going out of your comforts

own. Sometimes though, there will be an event that washes over that allowance like

battery acid and suddenly you're left without excuses. Either you do it or you don't and

you have to accept that if you miss out on something you wanted your whole life is entirely

your fault. Battery acid. That's what it tasted like. The feeling of

carved against my fingernails, the scratching sensation rubbing against my cheek. I could

have sworn I laid on that floor for a lifetime. Perhaps it was because at that moment I felt

like I'd lost my life. My safety blanket was ripped away from me. Length on the white

carpet, small patches of red dirting the purity of the white fire was around my face. I looked

...