I am a dreamer, a creative.
I want to write poetry on the walls of my home. Fill shelves with thousands of books, fill the house with light.
I want to stay up all night whilst the world is asleep and write my thoughts out of the darkness.
I want to take photographs everyday and turn them into art.
I want to run outside in the rain and dance like no one is around.
I want to look up at the stars and try to grasp the concepts of space and time and distance.
I want to climb inside myself and invent fictional worlds that capture the imagination of others.
I want to write until my arm aches and my fingers cramp and my writing twists into a scrawl.
I want to read Neruda in Spanish and Rilke in German.
I want to talk all night about life and love and philosophy and dreams like Jesse and Celine in Before Sunrise. I want that perfect moment to always cling to.
I want to always feel the wanting, the desire, the burn to be alive. I want to feel the urge to crawl out of my skin some days the wanting is so fierce, so all consuming. I don’t want to stop.
I want to make like Kerouac and surround myself with “the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” I want to be one of those people.
I want to stand in the dark watching someone sing, feel the music vibrate through my chest, my heart racing because I am alive.
I want to leave the house in the middle of the night and just drive aimlessly by the sleeping houses and empty streets, pretending that there is only me and this night is mine.
I want to travel by train, gazing out at the landscape and wondering about those I glimpse going about the fleeting moments of their lives.
I want to wander new cities and see them through the lens of my camera.
I want to see New York and Venice, Machu Picchu and Mount Fuji, the Great Wall of China and the Great Barrier Reef. I want to see the remarkable places, the ones that inspire.
I want to choose quirky hotels with personalities that I will remember not faceless chain rooms with uniform design and architecture. I want to stay in hotels built from castles and prisons and old factories, hotels with views and history and a story to tell.
I want to lie in the sun with my headphones in and feel so happy in the moment, looking up at the sky and wondering at how blue it is.
I want to read the great tomes of classic literature, no matter how impenetrable. Then I want to pick up Bridget Jones or Twilight for the hundredth time and lose myself in the story.
I want to crank the radio up whilst I’m driving and sing along like I’m a fucking rock star.
I want to get up in the night because the need to write is just too strong. I want to bleed words across a pristine page.
I want to wake up when I like because my life is my own.
I want to put my own cares and inspirations above the mundane and the everyday.
I want to be spontaneous; I want to sit all day in my pyjamas and watch repeats of my favourite shows. I want to explore; I want to stay at home, imagining the world from the security of my sofa.
I want to love, always.
I want to be a creative until the end of my days because there is no other way to truly live.