Ideal

This is not contrived, and if you think it is, I am deeply apologetic.

It's just that I put on this song and opened my windows. It smells like winter, where I lost much of my mind, but there is a hint of spring, too. If you look in my shoeboxes, you will find erasers and broken crayons. I don't know why I save them. Fear, I guess.

I stood up and started flailing my arms, circling around the room, unable to tell if I was laughing or crying. I could see my dreams flitting across my lavender walls. There are so many you don't know about.

I hope that my children will stand in the middle of a crowd. I hope that they do not feel out of place, and if they do, I hope they know it's OK. I hope there is music so loud there is no room for thought. I hope that the pavement vibrates. I hope that they can feel it shake under their feet.

Do you remember when we pulled cat masks over our faces and joined a group of strangers dancing around the city? There were so many people, and music followed us around in shopping carts piled high with speakers. We were protesting the war. I don't think anyone was listening, but it was beautiful.