In another life
I'm a miserable pianist performing for a bunch of drunks in some forgotten nightclub in some big city, or perhaps in the middle of nowhere, I play better than Ray Charles, better than Mozart, I'm alone, but I'm happy.
In another life
I never left that job that made me so miserable, my body is still broken, but I have a job, and a life, and a meaning, and perhaps I died doing what I loved, I'm getting that promotion that cost me my marriage.
In another life
I don't live in this city, these four walls are not my prison, my body is not this cage that the song keeps reminding me it is, my kitchen is not freezing, my room doesn't reek of bad decisions, I still work out, I am alive, and I am living.
In another life
I'm a singer, a public performer making spare change thrown in a hat in the middle of the street in Mexico, or England, or in a corner beside a cathedral, I live in the streets, but I am happy.
In another life
I wrote the number one best-selling novel in the world, my books have been translated countless of times and I'm a poet laureate invited to galas and celebrations at the white house, and I mingle with celebrities and royalty.
In another life
I am a champion boxer, or the greatest dancer, a certified chef, a glorified grand hero, I am the Dalai Lama, or the Pope, or some great religious figure that crowds follow into perdition.
In another life
I lived the many lives I wanted to live, but not this one,
anything, but this one.