I hope to have time. For packing and unpacking suitcases. To travel places within a pointing finger on a globe. To learn French. To listen to the concert for violin and orchestra by Tchaikovsky. To buy a house by the ocean. To enjoy Sundays in winter and the pleasure of boredom. To browse through a magazine at six o’clock on Tuesday morning, because the rush has never found a place in a poem.
I hope to have ideas worthy of effort. Thoughts worthy of esteem.
I hope to keep this lightness of mind, speech and action.
I wish to love. That burns, lights, radiates and consumes. What follows is, what you want, what you want, what you want. The love that makes it all possible.
I hope to continue to trust the good intentions of those who do not like the wind and of those who read the horoscope in the morning, before they’ve even had coffee.
I hope to feel a little Tinker Bell, a little Alice in Wonderland, a little Babe. Forever.
I hope to have the courage to shuffle the lines with dots, to despise mediocrity, to change the haircut, to take another route again and not to wish for anything that does not belong to my life already.
I hope not to let others be overwhelmed by habits, squalor of respectability, from easy silences, fashions, from the venom of the unsatisfied.
I hope someone to hold my hand every time I tremble of fear-induced pain. Or joy.
I hope to have the integrity and purity of the soul of my mother. And the taste of my grandmother.
I hope to tire my legs after the run, because I believe that is why we were born.
I hope to become a woman to be proud of.
I hope that there is so much more snow and cotton candy. Flights of fantasies without planes, a pinch of ginger and a hint of cinnamon. Slamming doors and gates opening. Gardens you do not expect. Surprises that touch the soul. Large lenses and dark for the light of dawn. Impulses of the heart. I hope to have the faith to believe in something or someone, but believe.
Hope you all have a rosy Tuesday, loves.