August 4, 2014
“What do you want out of life?”
Your dreams: They change. They evolve.
“I would love to be in the woods or on the coast, somewhere quiet, somewhere there’s actually stars at night. Where I can drink coffee in the morning and red wine in the evenings, and spend my days writing whatever comes to me, or off photographing an adventure. Somewhere I can get lost, somewhere I can be found.”
Is that too cliché?
“I want to create,” I tell her. “The dream was to get out of Syracuse. I craved new people, new experiences, a new setting. I ran—some say away, I say toward. Now that that dream has come true, it’s time to focus on a new one. Now, I want more. I want more but somehow I want less, too. I often find myself needing stillness and the quiet repetition of nature.”
Is any of this making sense?
We lie in bed, slowly and cautiously alluding to the future.
“You know, we could cover the ceiling in those little glow-in-the-dark stars. It would be a clear, starry night, every night, baby.”
Your life: It changes. It adapts.