i spend a lot of time daydreaming about my other lives
about the me who lives out in the middle of the new england countryside, where i’m quite lonely, but i have a couple goats and cows and chickens that i look after, and i like to make jam and i have an enormous huge crush on my beautiful neighbor who trades me her honey, and i invite her over for tea a little too often to not be super obvious
the me who was born and raised in new york city, who’s sharper and angrier, yet still so kind, with a fire in her eyes and shards in her words, who lives in a awful gross 2 bedroom apartment with 4 other people and loves the people in her life fiercely and is obscene about her art and smokes too much and doesn’t sleep enough, ever,Â
the me who went on a backpacking trip through europe after graduation with a desperate need to escape but it was a lot harsher than she thought but she fell in love halfway through france and lives in a tiny city with the love of her life and doesn’t talk to anyone she used to know; she still calls her mother sometimes, but no one knows where she is and she has never felt so free (she is still working on her french)
the me who is on the road to her first oscar, who manages to dodge out of all the gossip rags, who gets to do beautiful work in a city that she hates but she endures and she is not sure if this is what she wanted but it’s what she has so maybe she’ll run with it for nowÂ
the me who lives in a tiny studio somewhere in stockholm, a me who paints and draws her nights away and spends her mornings kneading bread and folding dough for hours and hours and she never wears makeup and the city is both so busy and so quiet and she works as an english tour guide on the weekends at the palace (her swedish is almost perfect, though)
and the me here, with a loud head and a messy kitchen and a giant heart who spends too much time thinking about all the things she is not instead of focusing on the wonder of what she is
