A Perfect Being

What would I do?

If I was an author in my own right, living on her own wherever she ends up in the world,

I would have a library, full of all the books of the world that tickles my brain and keeps my attention.

I would have a garden full of all kinds of plants because I'm not averse to any.

I would have white walls and grey lounges, glass tables and mahogany desks and shelves.

I'll have colors and I'll have none.

My resting place will be in shades of black and grey because colors are mentally too loud 

It'll be the biggest room in the house because loud thoughts need to scream.

I'll have the perfect patio that opens up into a space not disturbed by beautiful towering trees-

only because,

I would wish to see the stars at night. 

I'll spend most of my nights on that patio, 

drinking all the alcohol my body could contain 

because it is then that my thoughts recognize themselves. 

I act, think, and do transparently, to everyone else and not just myself.

I say everyone, but truly I only see myself.

What would I do?

If I grow more selfish by the years, 

wishing to share my time but not too much of it-

wishing to give my love but never too loudly-

wishing for distance yet having intimacy as second nature.

what would I do?

when I get tired of my vulnerability,

and I can't stand the white walls

the big room that screams emptiness

the glass table that hold only one coaster,

or the beautiful patio outside with a single chair.

What would I do then? 

When I envision my future, I always see the perfect space 

yet somehow its always never a perfect life.

sometimes I wish I could see it so,

so I don't have to think about that long awaited loneliness right now.

Sometimes, I wish I couldn't picture something so perfectly realistic.

I wish I didn't know myself.

Because what would I do?

If I had the freedom and leisure to live so unbridled, committed and not committed.

I would do exactly so, and I'd end up regretting it.