I don’t know what I’m doing. And I have an idea that I’m making a huge mess.
But for once, I’d like to pretend that I’m fearless. I’d like to believe I can fly.
I’d like to refuse to trust the arms that hold me to bear my weight.
I’d like to be Rachel Maddow and Emma Watson and Jenny Wilborn all rolled into one.
I’d like to not give a damn, frankly.
But I’d still like to keep the words “my dear”.
I’d like to set the world ablaze and warm my feet by the fire.
I’d like to be reckless and passionate and I’d like to quit hesitating.
I’m ready to welcome back my old friends wine and gin and see what we find to talk about.
I’d like to remain all book drink-y and wine read-y. But I have no control over what your pretty blue eyes see.
I’d like to throw out all the rulebooks and the timelines and the roadmaps and explore, make mistakes, and feel life with every fibre in this fragile body.
And I’d like to chase a golden retriever down by a pond full of geese.
I want to surprise people, turn heads on a crowded street. But mostly, I’d like to surprise myself.