Oh to live in a little house with the right amount of flowers and have a brightly coloured bicycle that can take me to the main village where the children whose names I have known for years put flowers in my hair while I buy more bread and fruits. Everyone knows me well here, yet they do not know me enough to come over to my home regularly; the slight mystery shrouding me keeps people from prying too deeply. So I live suspended in a perfect continuum, an ideal routine that does not bore me no matter how much time passes. Every day is the same yet every day is fulfilling, for the very concept of living surrounded by gentle nature is fulfilling. My days provide comfort and stability yet enough spontaneity to keep me smiling. I have pets and they are not obligated to spend time with me; I own an unnaturally large collection of books and I have read them all twice. I invite people for tea and my scone making abilities, according to one of the elderly men in the village, have improved exponentially. He usually visits Saturdays, though, so he can come with his partner. He especially enjoys, as he has told me, hearing the radio playing blues or jazz or salsa, because it reminds him of the times he would go out to dance every weekend with his sweetheart. When he and his family leave, I reread Platoâs works and get ready for bed, yet I do not fall asleep immediately. I call my brother, perhaps, and he tells me about his day. The effects of the day taking a toll on me, I fall asleep and rise at daybreak, in order to see the sun.
