About Me

A wise man once told me to always “speak my truth.” He told me that my voice was beautiful, and that what I had to say was powerful.

You see, being a “child,” with the imagination of a five-year-old, and wisdom of an elder, I am often all over the place with my thoughts and actions. I tend to either spend my free time doing cartwheels and running around on the beach like a maniac, or nonchalantly drinking herbal tea in a hammock, writing my little heart out in one of my many journals.

At times, my imagination and wisdom seem to cross paths, which is why I sometimes have the tendency to seem in over my head with my goals, according to those around me (hence, the strange looks I got years ago when I announced to everybody in my life I would travel Costa Rica alone once I turned eighteen. No plan, no Spanish, no problem, right?)

And, what do you know, me ignoring every doubtful remark last year is what led me to the solo excursion that had changed my entire life, and paved the pathway to the future I am now currently living.

But, at other times, you just need a little push from somebody who believes in you. Somebody to, just sometimes, remind you that you aren’t quite as crazy as others may make you out to be.

I have always had the desire to write surging through my veins. What a lot of my friends and family know about me is, I always make it a point to write every single day along my travels. Whatever I am feeling, or doing, I am writing it down.

They know this because, whenever I return home from months in the jungle, or wherever the heck I had been, and they ask me how it was, I simply hand over my journal and let them read, straight from my in- the- moment thoughts.

Yes, it took my every ounce of courage to begin to open the vulnerability of my pages of thoughts to my loved ones, but I learned to do this for the moments I couldn’t possibly wrap my mind around enough to physically talk about. This was for the cacao ceremonies, desolate beaches, and endless soil, mud and jungle that I had endured, that only my every crazy thought I had documented merely in the moment could ever describe to an outsider. This was for those who weren’t there on my crazy cross- country hitchhiking excursions, who could now live, breath, and feel my every tangled thought through the pages within my moldy, beaten journals. This was for the earth, animals, and human beings who inspired me along my journeys, this was to pay it forward and inspire those nearest and dearest to me the only way I knew how; through a pen and paper.

So, my words were first simply painting a picture for those I was close to, those who I trusted enough to place my heart in their hands. I figured those were the only people whom my voice would matter to. I figured those were the few who would take the time to see my picture I had painted for them, and to feel from it, to allow it to move them.

Then, a wise man told me my voice was powerful, and he said so in a way that made me begin to believe it.

I then asked myself, what if others besides those closest to me have the potential to be moved by my words? What if I took the vulnerability of my heart to an entirely new level, and opened my thoughts to anybody in the entire world who would listen? What if within the pages of my journals, I carried a little piece of magic that could make a friend, or a stranger, simply feel something. Joy, inspiration, sadness or laughter, what if inside myself I carried the ability to make somebody feel?

So, this is now for all of you. This is now for anybody and everybody who stumbles across my words dug from deep inside, this is for every single soul who believes a nineteen-year-old’s heart carries the capability to inspire the world.

You now hold every bit of my heart and soul in your hands, as you see life through the eyes of my wondrous soul.

Thank you, for allowing me to share my form of art with you, and for opening yourself up to my way of the world. I hope you enjoy reading my words as much as I took pleasure in writing them each day in jungles, forests, curbsides, villages, buses and hostels.

With lots of love,

Alaric Pelka