I am made of words.

I am an observer, a recorder, a thinker, not a doer. Sometimes I hate this about myself, and I try to change it, but à la base, it's what I am. I stand back and watch people, and think about it, and write about it. I would make an excellent journalist or historian, but not a political activist or someone who makes history. I, like everyone else, dream of greatness, and it makes me sick to realize that in all likelihood, my name will be forgotten soon after I die, just like the vast majority of people's names are. I dream of having my words and my ideas make a difference in the world, and changing peoples' lives for the better.

But whatever I do with my life, I am made of words. Even if I managed to be an activist of sorts, it would be because of words – not because of charisma or passion or people skills.

Without words, I am nothing. My social interactions degrade into horrible awkwardness, because I have no wry jokes, no sarcasm, no whimsical phrases that make me interesting. I have no million-watt smile or physical humor or grace or any of those language-transcending things. It is not necessarily a bad thing, but I am made of words, and without them I am nothing.

I came to France because I am an adventurer. Because I secretly am reckless and anxious to discover things. My dream job is to be like a younger, more glamorous Bill Bryson, to have adventures and write books about it and be the coolest person ever.

I want to explore Antarctica. I want to integrate myself with the Twareg and publicize their culture to create Western sympathy for an independent Twareg state. (See recent conflict in Mali.) (The same could go for the Kurds but we already know about them.) I want to live as a hobo for a month in San Francisco or New York, playing flute for money in the subway or on street corners, and write about life from the gutter. I want to work as a shiphand. I want to work for the Peace Corps or Doctors Without Borders. I want to save someone's life. I want to do the Appalachian trail, go winter-camping in the frozen North, work as a whitewater rafting guide, learn at least 12 languages, and walk somewhere where no one before me has walked. I want to take the world by force and stubbornness and fearlessness and apply my love of words to it, so people can bear witness to my slack-jawed awe of the world. So people can read and see how great and exciting a place we live in. That is truly my dream job.

I came to France because of that. It's a start. There aren't too many exciting things a 17-year-old can do, especially a 17-year-old who's adventurous but still too constrained by social rules and expectations, who wants to earn a diploma and go to a good college. But it's a start. In the end I guess I was disappointed because high school in France is still just high school, and is not actually that exciting. In many ways, Homestead was more of an adventure than this year, because of the number of opportunities that were available to me – the band trips, intense AP classes with intense people, musical and athletic opportunities, community college classes and everything else. In France, my only adventure so far has been living abroad itself, and trying to start a new life in a new language.

But I was also disappointed because it turns out that without words I am nothing. I can survive a year of being nothing, but only because I can still write in English, blog, email, and skype home. I could never settle down and live somewhere where I don't have my words.

In conclusion, I may wander far from home, but I'll always come back. And my adventures will always depend on memorializing themselves in written word, in novels, in blogs, or in journalism, because without words, I am nothing.