Last Resort

I have this backup plan that if my life turns out to be a total failure, devoid of success, passion, and whatever else I determine subconsciously to be continuous with my evolution. Then, if all else fails, I can run away and start all over with mountains and bushes of blueberries and an old banjo carved from an oak tree. A van on new roads with different spatialized regulations that I can fixate over; only my eyes see a scene; drawn to looking for sidewalks or lines in the middle of the road, but bless my beautiful brain, or at least I tell myself. If I run away from here and the soon-to-be future which seems scary, at least I have a warm hug and a forever infinite cup of eight ounces of coffee that looks like mountain peaks and coral reefs. Old abandoned mansions on islands not yet colonized by the tourist industry: oh wait then the perpetrator would be me. I wonder if there exists a place with books for walls and pencils for cars. A place so far removed even your favorite writer hasn’t heard about it. Where your neighbor’s place is dotted with forsythias; a house overgrown with green meadows and purple ivy. Glistening, the sunsets every night and we go to bed with warm bellies and think about vast cities. So maybe that’s it; we’ll always be dreaming of someplace else more ferocious and dynamic with cars instead of pencils and walls instead of books. You know, real-life cities where you can sit at a cafe and still get lost in people-watching for hours. Girls with purple headbands and chunky loafers. Where then does a place with the two of us exist in the mountains, past the creaks and meadows, over the rolling tide of the cold icy beach? Behind those two tall trees that rely on each other; so intertwined you could never take one down without them both crashing down; likewise, I guess you could never love one without loving the other. I imagine this place in my head with my eyes open still peering into the world I currently am in, and I think that this is that alternative reality I’m imagining. This isn’t a last resort for if my life turns out to be a total failure, this is a life I’m dreaming of. Like heavy cream whipped fresh and strawberries still tart, yet to be ripened by artificial spoonfuls of sugar turned natural by smiles and sticky hands. I ask myself is this a last resort or is this my destiny? A fox stands in the middle of the road in my dreams when I’m reminiscing about urban planning and cities, but how ultimately, I want to be by myself in the country. Or maybe with someone, I love, but mostly, with love I have for myself. I think back to saltwater, really cold salt, so cold it almost loses that sticky feeling; I baptize myself every time I choose to jump in and that is the most autonomy I will ever receive. Meadows of wildflowers beckon me and a steady hum of the people I love urge me to not isolate my dreams, and so I run on, in this field that has no end. Where the stars meet and the horizon begins; my oh my I know not where that space lies. What I do know is that a life, or a second chance- last-ditch resort needs to be joyous and pretty. Itchy like wildflowers brushing over your naked ankles on a windy day- perfect prep for a dip in the cool lake. I want a life where even my last resort is good enough.