Imagine the sweet time between dusk and dawn; the sun is in the sky but has yet to spread its wings. Six o'clock in the winter time. Peace. Perfect.
I look down. Wooden table. A cup of coffee; light roast, half-and-half, no sugar. The warmth of the cup around my hands is soothing, and the taste of the coffee is comforting and familiar. The soft sounds of an early morning in the background, the smell of coffee, the feeling of a brand new day. I look up. A window, covered by white curtains, overlooking a city. Mankind's greatest work of art. So much noise, so much commotion, for such a lonely place. People pass each other daily but never really know each other. A perfect place for both the socialites and the recluses. A wonderful blend of flavors. Like this cup of coffee. And then I look to the ground. A dog. A beautiful, beautiful husky, resting peacefully on my feet. Her name is Hime and she likes to be pet under her belly. She loves going for walks and she loves me and that is enough.
Other things? Stacks of maps. Paintings. Piles of photographs. Undeveloped rolls of film, waiting to reveal their secrets. Pieces of paper with notes lying around. Notes with reminders, notes having to do with work, notes with doodles, notes to each other.
A piano, with sheet music waiting to be played. A saxophone. A guitar. Picks and reeds in jars. A turntable and a stack of vinyl LP's on a shelf beneath it. Stacks of CDs. Tapes from our childhood. Tapes we bought when we were feeling pretentious. For such a quiet place, music is everywhere.
Books. Everywhere. There is Hemingway and Kerouac on the ground, there is Cummings and Verne on the coffee table, and Steinbeck, Poe, and London take their seats on the shelves. Books stacked in piles in the living room; Charles Darwin, Richard Feynman, Sigmund Freud, Harvey Milk, and Plato are all frequent guests to this place. Books we have read, books we have not read, books we will probably never read, and books we have read countless times over. For such quiet people, our minds are such loud places.
And finally, "we". There is someone on the bed, sleeping, with one of the books that they were reading last night draping over their face and their pile of unfinished work sitting on the bedside table. Briefcase on the floor. Today's attire, patiently hanging over the door, waiting for wakefulness to breathe life into him. His outdoor equipment is in the closet for when we go on weekend excursions into the wilderness. His sneakers are by the door, with his dress shoes right next to those. And then my school textbooks are next to his shoes, along with my lesson plans and my clothes for the day. For such a messy routine, it doesn't seem like it would ever get old.
That is what I see when I lie in bed, close my eyes, and dream about the safest place in the world for me. Stable, functional, peaceful, and filled with love and the things that I love.
--
This is actually quite confining, if you consider the kind of person that I am.
You know what? That place isn't my dream place. My dream place would be on an island in a house on a cliff that overlooks the ocean. I would go surfing everyday and be a meteorologist that works at a weather center and conducts research on local weather patterns. I would take Hime on early morning walks on the beach right before sunrise, bike on the mountains on the afternoons I have off, and take solo walks through the forests when I choose to.
That is the dream I have for myself. And the first part? That is a reality that I want to share with someone special in the future, more than anything. But the thing is, I don't think either of them are realistically possible. Life never goes the way you imagine it to. I think I'm stuck inside of my mind again. I don't know how to get out. And really, I don't know if I want to.
Nothing is ever as good as how you imagine it to be.