I have always been a bit of a dreamer, the girl with her heads perpetually in the clouds. I have this entirely romanticized vision for the future that I am forever painting across the canvas of my mind. And even though my present never remotely resembles the canvases of the past, it doesn’t stop me from painting. Forever painting.
Currently the canvas portrays a sunny loft-apartment in the sky. Just beside the door sits two freshly deposited suitcases, heavy with the artifacts of distant lands. The hardwood floors proudly bear the faint trace of paw prints. Bookshelves line the walls overflowing with literature of all varieties – some of them even carry my own name. A desk sits facing the window overlooking the skyscrapers beyond the pane. Upon it sits a laptop with several tabs open in the browser (some things never change). Accompanying the laptop is the always-vital cup of steaming tea. The room is alive with music as the record player sings from the corner.
But then! And then! There is the kitchen. What a sight to behold is this kitchen. It is the kitchen of my dreams – complete with wide-open spaces and counters that go on for miles. Large windows cast sunlight in to every corner, the shiny appliances sparkle in the glow. The sink is full to the brim with evidence of the previous night’s attempt at a romantic dinner for two. Empty wine bottles and a half-eaten cake lie among the wreckage.
Beyond the living room, the bedroom door is slightly ajar. Just inside, the bedding is askew. A brush and some flowers sit on one of the bedside tables while the other supports a pair of men’s reading glasses and a large wristwatch. The entire room tells a story of a hers and a his.
The entire painting tells the story of a dream.