In my ideal world, my mornings begin early but slow. There’s no rush to jump into anything and my desire to tend to the day ahead is what pulls me from my bed. There isn’t someone I share a bed with, but my heart no longer waits for what’s not meant to be. I’ve learned to be content with myself, alone and not lonely.

I make a coffee, or perhaps tea and make something to eat before making my way to the front porch to take in the world as it wakes up. Rain, snow or shine I take my post until my morning drink is done and the joint between my fingers no longer burns. By that time, surely, I’ll have seen enough and felt enough, probably recalled enough too, to begin writing.

There’s no need to be weary of time as I have nowhere to be and no schedule to maintain in my ideal world. This makes it easier to let my mind wander before I begin to bring what I’ve found to the surface. While I don’t have anywhere to be, that doesn’t mean I don’t have plans to tend to from time to time. My life is full, rich and saturated in love and that wouldn’t be possible if it were only me. My mind can create such wondrous places because my imagination is one of my favorite things about me, but to experience wondrous feelings in real time is unmatched. I write about the adventures I’ve been on and new experiences had. I write about the love I long for as much as the love I currently feel. I don’t judge what comes to the surface but simply share the findings. I don’t write to or for anyone but myself. I dedicate words to those that inspire me, but at the end of the day, I’m okay with only me having read what I’ve written.

In this ideal world, I live closer to forests because nature is what brings me back to myself. I still live in a city because I need the noise and the people to also ground me. I acknowledge the appreciation of multiple truths. I sit amongst trees and read books that take me to worlds that don’t really exist. I eat my lunch in between chapters and drink the water from my canteen.

I bookmark the page I’m on and take a call from someone I care for a lot, my chosen family. We talk as I make my way back home and I catch her up on the goings on in my sweet and small world. I feel heard and seen and am reminded that my ability to feel so much is my greatest gift.

Back at home, I hear a knock on my door. Three familiar knocks, gentle yet firm. I open the door and a woman is standing before me with a bouquet in one hand, the other running through her hair. She’s stunning and I welcome her in. I close my laptop for the day, all my writing complete until a new one begins once more tomorrow. There’s a sudden but subtle realization I have about living in the ideal world I once wrote about in the fall right before my 28th birthday as the woman with the flowers and I make dinner together. I’m sure you remember me saying I don’t share a bed with anyone, and it’s true; I have my bed and she has hers. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the type to want to have an “ours” but obviously will not rule it out altogether. As much as I enjoy being embedded into someone’s life, I’d be naive to fall into that state after the last time something similar happened. What she and I have now works. I know I love her, and I tell her so for the first time while my fingers trace her jaw, her face inches from mine. She looks at me and says it back before closing the space between us.

As night falls, I let myself sink into her chest. I listen to her heartbeat and count them out until I’m asleep. We’ll have breakfast in the morning and she’ll head back to her home after we share coffee on my porch. She says she’ll call me later and she does. The day flows back into a rhythm, one I know so well.

For whatever reason, I couldn’t write the way I normally do this morning. I didn’t want to try and pull the thoughts from my head about the reality of life. That’s not to say my life is hard or bad, I guess I just wanted to try something new. I had a gentle time writing this one. I might do more like this again.

Until next time.