I've been dreaming of moving to New York City for some time now. Since I realized what a talent for writing I have, I've been aching to move to the big city, hoping I'll make a big break there.
People in my home town laughed, the small town farm girl moving into the hustle and bustle of NYC. Some said I wouldn't last a day, others found it hysterical that the country girl wanted to move into the city.
But it's the dream I've had for years now, one that I still have.
I've dreamed of having an apartment that overlooks Central Park, if I could find one.
I'd have a cute little Sphinx cat, or a French Bulldog, named after either band members or forgotten book characters. And every night they'd sleep curled up next to me in bed, and I wouldn't have to feel alone ever again.
My home would look like it came out of the ideas on my Pinterest board, saving up and going to antique stores to furnish the dream home I've been drooling over in my dreams. Polaroid pictures tacked up on the walls and band posters scattered around every room. The index cards with quoted I've created over the years would be taped up in my office for inspiration whenever I needed it.
There had to be a balcony, or a fire escape at the least, where I could house a few potted plants and be able to comfortably sit outside and write the novels that ran wild in my head. One where I could have vines growing around the metal bars to house my personal oasis.
And inside would be the typewriter my grandmother gave me, when I could finally afford to fix it. It would be sitting proud as could be at my desk where I could type out my poetry like any other Instagram poet.
I'd like to think I'd be happy, walking my dog through farmer's markets and wearing out the old polaroid camera I have; taking pictures to turn into postcards to mail my few friends back home, hoping and praying I'd get a letter back from them.
Nights would consist of fairy lights, vinyl players with Frank Sinatra crooning his top 100 hits; me dancing around the tiny kitchen with a glass of whisky, two pieces of ice, while cooking some kind of wanna be vegetarian recipe I found online.
In my tiny apartment there would be a small hidden section dedicated to the random obsessions I have—Wicca, tarot cards, crystals, the thousands of books I've bought but never had the time to read, and whatever vintage knick-knacks I could find and afford. Of course, my house would look like a tasteful hoarder's episode, but I would love it.
Saturdays I would be lounging in sweats and tank tops, cleaning my home and dancing around while my cat judged me from her scratching post.
I'd like to think I could make a name for myself. And I'd like to think I'd truly be happy. That I could turn over a new leaf and be my own person, not who everyone expects me to be. I'd be able to get acrylic nails again, and dye my hair how I'd like. I'd be able to dress how I wanted, get the dozens of tattoos I've been hoping for, and not have to worry about letting anyone down.
I'd like to think I'd be a regular at a nearby coffee place, and that every Saturday when I was buying flowers for my small floral obsession, the barista would smile and knowingly ask,
But, that's just another day dream.