i want to move to San Francisco.
I want to amble down streets and drink in the sunlight. Drink in the people. Drink in the culture.
I want to run into strangers who’ll eventually become friends in dimly-lit bars or sun-flooded coffee shops.
I want to write.
I want to write in the cliched, Taylor Swift-music-video way, where I’m the awkward, in her own world girl whom you’ve caught a glimpse of through a window, scribbling away in a recycled-paper brown notebook.
I want to fall in love with a book.
I want to dream lazily and read Neruda out loud and play lazy morning scrabble with a glass of Shiraz in hand.
I want to fall in love with myself. Utterly, wholly, mind-blowingly.
I want to move to San Francisco and be the sort of person I wish I could be, but I won’t.
Because that isn’t the point.
And LJ was right, but wrong. Who we are may not be out there, somewhere, but who we are, genuinely, isn’t right here, inside, either.
Because people, our lives, our goals, our ambitions, everything in this universe, really, is just Time. And maybe we see it, and feel it, so we think it’s real, but at the same time, it isn’t.
And these goals that we work towards, they’re not pointless, but they’re not points we should build ourselves around either.
The epiphany is that it isn’t about who we are, or what we do. It’s about whether or not this is something we’ll look back at and not regret. The wasted moments spent drinking, laughing and talking. If I were to die now, if I were to have everything stripped away from me… Is this what it to be. Who I want myself to be defined as?
And that’s the grand mystery.
The secret has always been how to die.