What do I want? Who am I? Am I capable?
Am I capable of being loved? Of loving?
Am I capable of meeting the man I want? Am I capable of living the life I need?

The older I get the more resistant I become to change. It seems easier to indulge the habit before letting go of it. And yet I feel exasperated by the persistent continuity of the past and the incessant interruptions it seems to shove into the present. The future seems less and less plausible and more like a fanciful daydream. Polite. Considered. Completely out of bounds with the realities that loom impossibly over my head.

So I sit here in my office and dream about wooden floors covered in tattered Persian rugs. Velvet upholstered sofas and portraits of bygone men in uniforms. A stack of books on the bedstand. A man to keep me warm. Bottles of wine and whiskey. Simplicity, minimalism. A stripped down life.

It seems like the more simple my needs become the more complex it is to obtain them.

I am unsure if I will ever understand this paradox that has become my life.