A Sad Hippie

It's funny how we think about our futures. How we envision ourselves; our lives, after we've accomplished and reached our career, academic and personal goals. Before the invisible finish line,  perspiration is nothing without inspiration. The sweat, the tears, the dry seasoned taste of our skins; the salt that is left lingering on our lips is nothing but flavor of passion.

When I think about my future, when I am no long churning like clockwork, I don't picture myself with a degree in hand . I try to picture myself lying flat on a beach eating spaghetti sandwiches while drinking jugo de chinola but I can only make the sand and nothing else. When I envision my 32 year old self, I see myself crouching in a off-white sweater right between two beige curtains that go softly go up and down like tides of milk. In front of me is a child but the gender still isn't clear and I'm laughing, probably something that the child is pointing to and I know that the air in this moment has no personal weight as I envision my lungs expanding, struggle-free.