He drinks his morning coffee in his hot classroom as I head out the door into a cold, chilly October air. He makes a toast to the little time that we both have. I wonder what inspires him to teach those kids, half of whom don't know the difference between "their" and "there", half of whom seldom write for the pure joy of writing. I wonder what motivates him to have them tell their stories on paper. I wonder if the classroom ever becomes a mundane, redundant image.
I am almost 19 years old, still living in the same room that I moved into six years ago. I am still daddy's little girl, still spoiled by too much love, still stubborn, still a child. I wake up hoping the sun is out and sleep in hopes of better dreams. I like to be great one day. I like to be a great writer. I want New York to love me, to hold me, to empower me, to indulge me. I want it all. When I get bored, I write little notes, little texts, little sentences and I forget that I overdue them. I live by writing and I get carried away and I start dreaming and fantasizing and I forget about logic and sense and
He thinks I do more with my time. But he has no idea that the things I do no longer satisfy my needs, that drinking a latte by myself on a Friday night is no longer enough. That selling clothes once a week to total strangers is no longer interesting.
Nevertheless as I've said many times before, I love life. I love my imperfect utopia. And I would like to make a toast:
To life, here, anywhere that makes us smile.
Thanks for the inspiration…