I try to avoid clichés, such as the word ‘someday,’ but I can’t deny the hope it carries. It’s beautiful and promising, like the first light of day. Seven simple letters that hold the weight of my dreams.
Someday, I’ll write about cool winds and peaceful rain, about afternoons spent wandering through gardens. I’ll describe the grass beneath my feet, as though it thanks me for walking this earth. I’ll write of vast cities, where new streets hum with life, new places I’ve visited, and those yet to come.
Someday, I will only wait for sunrises and sunsets. I’ll leave the sciences behind in favor of what nourishes the soul. I’ll indulge in simple joys, like flipping through recipe books and learning the art of crafting the perfect soup.
Someday, my writing will shift. It will be less about others and more about me—how I am loved, how I am loved well, and how those I love are lucky to have me. I’ll be hidden, only found by those who seek me in my absence, who know that I’ve always left the door open. At the dining table, I’ll sit with friends who stayed, who made me stay, and who never took me for granted.
Someday, I’ll spend more time analyzing constellations, and less on pondering why relationships fail. I’ll always have the right words to say, no hesitation, no delay. Someday, my writing will be simple and clear, no ironies, no hidden metaphors.
Short, and sweet;
No traces of past pains, or of having dealt with goodbyes.
But someday is still a distant thought. For now, I let the ink bleed a little longer. I let the pen spell words like grief and loss.
Prose.
