I’m not happy.
Yes, I have things to be happy about and I love everyone one of them, but I’m not happy.
This isn’t the life I want to be living. It’s a total asshole thing to say. It’s selfish. It’s like telling my husband he isn’t good enough. Which isn’t remotely true.
Maybe discontent is a better word. No. No, it’s not.
There is too much content-ness going on here. Settled. Comfortable. Suffocating. Binding.
I want something different. Long for. Crave.
The ache of this unknow unlived life pulses with every beat of my heart.
The pounding of a drum trying to change the dance without knowing how.
I want to travel. Let my bare feet touch the ground in new strange places. Stay long enough to know if I’ve found a new home.
I want a wildly successful business that supports me in every way. That sets me on fire and helps me spread that fire. Burn the world down.
I want lazy mornings in bed. Sheets that feel like heaven against my skin. Sex.
I want clothes that help me feel amazing. That fit. That are just as sexily geeky and gothy as I am.
I want a healthy body. One that performs all the tasks I need it to. Without suffering. Body love with ease.
I want a home to come home to. A house with working parts. Comfortable and beautiful spaces. Welcoming spaces. Sanctuary.
I want a car. Maybe two. A classic car that screams sex. The perfect gleaming black paint job. A truck that works hard. Roaring engine. Mud fling tires. Ever part performing to perfection. Creams jeans.
Bonfires. Starry skies. Chocolate. Full body massages.
It gives me the chills just thinking about it. The good chills. The ones you get when your lover brushes their lips along your naked skin.