I used to have this daydream of my life where I'd be sitting in my own living room, drinking tea, writing while my dog was curled up next to me on the couch, listening to the rain outside my window.
It's happening.
Granted, I hoped I'd be getting paid for the writing, but you can't have it all. Today I realized that perhaps, without me noticing, my dreams are all slowing becoming realities. I think I didn't notice that I am happier, that I am calm, that I am coming to peace with so many things I keep categorizing as tragedies.
Because finally, all the things I am lacking are made up for by all the conversations I've had on various porches around this city.
It's all happening.
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