I am thinking one of these days I should wake up on a bright
morning and drive down a road with the sunlight breaking through each branch as
I pass. And I should, in my mind, not have any thoughts of regret or sadness. I
will see, with clear eyes, a day which is beautiful and untainted with memories
of days past drowning in remorse and anger and nervous hands clenched towards
the future. I would, in that moment, be content, settled in an unceasing
feeling of happiness that I have finally made it. I have finally made it.
4 years ago
If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say ...
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