In my mind, I’ve thought of infinite futures for myself:
In one, I live in a beach house with the boy who owns the red jeep and the bright blue surfboard. My day revolves around the tides and I make lobster every Sunday for dinner. We eat and we laugh and at night we take walks along the moonlit sea. Sand fills the cracks in the worn hardwood floors and salty air comes and goes with the breeze. In another, I own a cabin in the woods with the boy who bought me a telescope for my sixteenth birthday. We stargaze until sunlight conquers the darkness and we drink water from a well. Our limbs tango beneath the wine stained sheets as the drafty windows let in the bitter winter air, but we don’t care as long as we have each other.
In the last, I live alone in a small studio apartment. The city lights flood through my windows and the sirens serve as my alarm clock. My favorite liquor fills the fridge and I eat banana pancakes everyday for breakfast. I own an old fashioned type writer and click away until I create magic on paper. My words fill the world with wonder.