Sometimes I like to sit in my room and daydream. I watch the NYC Drive channel on cable, and imagine being part of the traffic rush. I imagine driving through the city, eventually leaving it. I imagine the car horns honking, the flow of the highway, and the busy streets of Times Square. I watch people walking along the Brooklyn Bridge. I imagine me walking with them.
Sometimes I lay across my bed, closing my eyes as house music plays in my ears, and daydream about a new day. The new day will be just the way I want it. The sun will be out, the temperature will be warm, and I will hear birds chirping. I will have a window to open, and a reason to look outside. I will smell the freshness of the morning dew. I will watch the visiting squirrel that perches on my window sill. It will be peaceful.
Sometimes I sit at the table. The wooden table that has had its fair share of use. The scratches and ruggedness of it tells its own story. Similar to my story. My hands touch the rough surface. I feel my spirit under my hands. I stare at it daydreaming what will be created. I daydream about painting my own portrait on a table that represents parts of my story. The story I write on its surface.
I daydream a lot. I daydream every day. I create my own days and strive to make their dream come true.