Today I laid in bed after work and closed my eyes tightly and thought about how I wanted to live in house with a huge lovely white kitchen where I could cook dinner for the person I love every night, in a city that inspired me, where I had friends and felt moved to create. Where I had a lovely, airy, light room filled with my fabric and sewing machine and creations. With a lovely yard that my dogs could prance around in freely. I thought about wanting to be happy. Desperately.

Instead, I write in my superfluous blog.

my blog where I have to censor myself. my blog where I can’t post certain photos or write about certain things. and I wondered if this dream I felt inside me was fantasy that can’t ever exist for me.