i just want to burrow even deeper into the corners of my own mind, get cozy, & sleep until i'm twenty.
i don't know in which ways i think my life will improve by then, but i figure if i sleep for almost six months, when i wake up, everybody i know will have either moved on or moved out. maybe i can toss a pair of pants, a jar of peanut butter, & an ukulele in a backpack & tiptoe out of my life & into someone else's.
some successful journalist who lives in a busy city & has a smile for everyone but time for no one except her bernese mountain dog named john wesley harding & her every-tuesday phone call to her parents.
she dreams big & actually does something about it. she doesn't just talk about africa. she takes money out of her bank account, time off of work, & travells the world.
she'll get all dolled up on any given saturday & go out, even though she has no strong arm to wrap her delicate fingers around.
she sits poised at the bartop & makes easy conversation with everyone who approaches her, & will sometimes let charming young men buy her a martini - just one, though, & she never goes home with any of them, because she's a lady who understands she can't trust or be trusted.
at the end of the night, she looks out the window at the same city, sometimes tinged with different watercoloured hues but always the same canvas. she's not sad about it, though. that's the thing. she's not lonely, she's content, she's whole; nothing's missing.
the last thing she thinks about before her dreams silently steal her away always leaves her smiling. no one knows what it is except for john wesley. she'll whisper secrets sometimes into his big, warm fuzzy ears, 'cause she knows he couldn't possibly tell anyone else or make her cry later & wish she hadn't shared that part of herself.