Sometimes, I don't know what to dream anymore.
For the longest time, I nurtured a dream that brings me to places far and all quite unimaginable. There, I will embrace my work like my prayers and my relationship like life itself. I will have no problems enduring the worklife in a cosmopolitan city with all its speed and casual dealings. I foresee myself living in a building surrounded by lifeless concrete and nameless faces, but will endure it only because it's near my place of work. I will keep a notebook of addresses and numbers of old friends and relatives and will take note of birthdays and anniversaries.
Lest I will be cautioned as being too stiff, I will definitely not forget to enjoy life's many sweet treats. I will drive an SUV and own rollerblades. On weekends, I will head to the beach or decide to be a gracious dinner host for a few close friends. My personal quiet time I will spend doing charity work or in aimless drives to the countryside.
Recently, however, things have somehow changed a bit. I don't know if I'm really aging or it's really like this when you get past a certain age. But I have found the idea of farming in a far rural place quite comforting. The house may not be grand in design and amenities, but it will have at least a radio. A guitar hangs in one of the walls. There will be no concrete suffocating me except for the paved road. Outside the house is a well-kept garden with a cottage in one end where I entertain friends over brewed coffee. Wind chimes are delicately mounted all over the garden to create more ambience.
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