Dreams

I want to make complicated, intricate jewellery for people who are willing to pay for it because it's beautiful and they appreciate an artisan's time.  I want to make things,  any things.  I want to make beautiful lacquered boxes with silver hinges and line them with incredibly time-consuming, hand printed silk. I want to be a writer.  I want to be a sculptor. I want to be one of those people that absails in trees to lop off branches, or failing that, the ones who absail down buildings to wash the windows.  I want to fly hawks around skyscrapers to frighten the pigeons.

I want to read all the books.

I want to live by the sea in the mountains and I don't even know if that's possible.  I want to live in a city in the country where I can walk the dogs in the quiet and still be part of a vibrant community.  I want to garden. I want to grow my own vegetables and have time to give to them.  I want to sing to my flowers.  I want to teach my children how to identify different seedlings. I want to drink coffee in bed on Sundays and talk about the newspapers without worrying whether what the newspapers say will affect the rest of the day.  I want not to have to cry about money.  I want not to have to care about money because it isn't important and doesn't make me happy.  I want a car that works.  I want access to an amazing library.  I want to live near a second-hand bookshop that is open at odd hours and has interesting smells.  I want to make cakes and eat them whenever I feel like it, without worrying if it will make me fatter.  I want to be able to say, "What shall we have for tea?" and it already have been decided.  I want not to worry anymore.   I want never to be suddenly terrified again, when the second before I had no idea anything was about to be frightening.  

I want to talk about complicated, confusing ideas right into the early hours.

I want to be able to hear the sea from my window.  

I want to feel real again.  I want to feel again.