Could I just try it, just for a few days? I wish I could go to a far off city where no one knows me and I can just blend in, one of those college towns where everyone is young and hip and artsy. Where I could sit in a book store or a coffee shop on a rainy day like this one, and write all day, write poetry and stories and journal entries, write just for the sake of writing, never rereading, writing and then wadding up the paper and throwing it in the trash.

I wish I could sit there sipping lattes and not caring about how much sugar or fat I'm ingesting, sit there and not care how I look or how other people, how guys see me. Sit there, be peaceful, listen to Ravel's piano concerto in G, the third movement, on repeat. Or Stravinsky's Firebird Suite, and feel my heart rise in my throat during the buildup to the finale.

I wish a boy would sit across from me and do the same, write, or draw, or listen to music, and every so often lean over and show me a sketch or read me a paragraph, or replay a particular passage of music that makes his heart rise up in his throat. And maybe when the rain stopped and the sun came out he would take my hand and pull me outside and we would walk through the streets, through the parks, happy and smiling, talking about our futures and our dreams and about life and music and movies and books, about everything, about nothing, it wouldn't matter.

Listen to me. My dream day sounds like a bad indie flick.

But I just wish ...