Pipe Dreams

I've always imagined myself withering away, rather gracefully, in some secluded beach in the coast of southern Peru. I'd be listening to stories of people that come by for the beach, for the seclusion, for that irrational longing for a place they've never been to, or for the illusion that everything is okay because they're somewhere far. I'd probably still write, a lot. I'd walk by the beach in the morning just to see the sun rise; with cigarette in one hand and coffee in the other, if neither of them has killed me yet. I'd learn to make cocktails and chase my morning coffee with vodka by 10 a.m. I'd knit or crochet in the afternoon, maybe take a nap, and hopefully stay away from any kind of meds despite the frailties that old age entails. I'd wake up to some old playlist I used to listen to when I was younger and then remember some people who, hopefully, are still part of my life. I'd dance to the music while making my afternoon tea. Tea is always best in the afternoon. Then I'd write, maybe letters or essays, a poem, or a short story based on a random traveler or stranger's life story. I'd write until I tire and I'd walk again by the beach to watch the sun set. I'd wonder how many people have gone to the moon by now; did another planet get demoted? How far have we gone for science? And what about the arts? By nighttime, I'd be reading a book on my porch facing the sea. And as I get attached to a character, as I devour each page with fervor and ardency, I'd smile. I'd smile and probably cry a little for the innocence in my childhood, the impulsivity and intensity of my youth, the triumphs, blunders and struggles in adulthood, my either strained or unfeigned platonic and romantic relationships. I'd chase off the thousand thoughts that have always plagued my mind for as long as I don't remember anymore. I'd write in my diary and drift off to sleep as my memories live again in dreams, in figments. What a modestly splendid life. 

May 2, 2019