Life Is But A Dream

It's nighttime. Half passed eleven. Last night I was awake until 3am, tossing and turning; too hot, and then too cold. It's not typical for me to have trouble falling asleep, but in times like these when your life is in transition, it's what's to be expected, I'd say. At least for someone with my kind of whirlwind brain.

Tonight I sit here for the very last time on this bed. A folded duvet rests by my feet with a cat on top; stacks of books to be taken to the thrift store tomorrow lie on the floor to my left, and my desk is cleared of all papers and pens: only a few bits and bobs are left on top for me to toss into a bag. In the far corner I have two large containers packed neatly with camera equipment, cords, and a few belongings that seemed appropriate to keep. I'm impressed with myself that I've been able to compress most of the contents of my life into a couple boxes and bags.

Tomorrow I enter a brand new chapter of my life. But, this isn't just any chapter.

This chapter is a powerful one. A glossy, shimmery, weighted chapter that represents everything I've ever wished for. It holds every dream I've ever dreamed, and it sits, it waits for me tomorrow morning, to enter it.

I'll be living in a city I dreamed of living, with a person I dreamed of living with and being with and breathing with, and I'll be doing what I've always wanted to do.

Life is but a dream.