Sometimes I become overwhelmed with sadness that I’ll never farm potatoes in Idaho. I’ll probably never own a flower shop, or live in San Francisco. I’ll definitely never know what it’s like to be an astronaut; to see the earth from that great a distance. Nor will I ever spend months at sea, fighting loneliness for livelihood. I will never be a zookeeper and form a special bond with each one of my animals, or teach ballet in The Windy City. I am overwhelmed with the people I will never be, so sometimes I have to satisfy myself by just knowing them. Knowing they exist, they prosper, they expire. They tell me stories and I listen; wanting to fill my head with as much information as I can before my childlike curiosity is lost and is replaced with steadfast bitterness.

Sometimes I play pretend in my head that I’m one of these people. And I feel what they feel. The smell of acrylic paint in a Paris loft. The cold that rattles my bones late at night in Alaska. The warmth of the oven always on in a baker’s apartment, the aroma of bread around every corner. For an instant I know them, and I can feel them; however far away, knowing me too.

Sometimes there are characters that stick with me. Young adventurers that travel around the world. Artists in big cities trying to make a name for themselves. Mothers in Victorian houses, vines up the side, calling to small blonde children to come in for dinner. Sometimes characters stick with me, they’re all I think about, I play them everyday letting one become the other become the other. Sometimes my favorites change and the orders get all mixed up, but in the end they have played out perfectly. They finish their last scene and they take a bow and the next one stands up waiting to create another beautiful story.

Perhaps I will be a zookeeper after all.