Yesterday afternoon, my yoga buddy pulled up to class in a white BMW convertible. I wanted that.
I want to stand in front of Mona Lisa at the Louvre, see what all the fuss is about … sit next to Anna Wintour at every show during New York's Fashion Week. I want paparazzi to follow me around.
I want to lie on the couch in my pajamas, watching movies until I'm eighty-five.
I lust for a live-in hair stylist, because dreadlocks require more care than I’d planned on. I crave maid service. And a loft in the city. And a John Deere mini excavator.
I want to thank Neil DeGrasse Tyson, sing back-up for my sister Michelle, ask Uncle Al what he regrets, become the next great stand-up comic, and deliver a bring-down-the-house Academy Awards acceptance speech.
I long to join a Vedanta convent.
Cradle a newborn baby.
Win the Indy 500.
Belong. Be alone.
Another breath, another want. It exhausts me. Let me fade into the real, free from my desires. Even wanting that, I'm still enslaved.