I’ve been fantasizing about a life in Chicago. In this life I’m a busy waitress running around a restaurant in a little black apron and leather notepad. I wait tables and count my tips at the end of every night while I dream about my writing being published. After a long shift I smoke a cigarette out back with a coworker I don’t really like but the company is nice. I lean against the brick wall located in downtown Chicago; it’d be in Seattle if I was more interesting. I’ll never be cool enough for New York though. As I inhale I look up at the famous buildings all around me- the Willis Tower juts out into the sky like a man made crystal, sharp and magical. I let the smoke fill my lungs the same way I let my hopes and dreams fill up my mind. In this life I am happy. Maybe my skin isn't glowing with radiance and maybe my hair isn't flowing like a mermaid’s, and my smile isn't as wide as it was when I was 17, but I’m happy because I’m fighting for something. Because I’m actually passionate about something. Every plate I put down on a customer’s table is for my writing. All the shifts I cover last minute are for my writing. I ignore the sexual comments the cooks throw at me for my writing. The shitty apartment I live in is because I won’t stop focusing on writing. I know that I could have avoided this struggle by studying something else in college and pursuing a more “stable” career, but in this life, no one can say that I didn't try. Because I live to write, and I signed up for the life of an unestablished writer. I signed up for the struggle. I was first in line actually. I knew the risks, I knew the lack of stability, I knew rejection would inevitably happen time and time again before I got praise. I knew that it would be difficult, and I still went for it. I refused to be haunted by the idea that I didn’t want it enough, or worse, that I didn’t let myself want it enough. This is the life I want. I want to be passionate about something. Something worth ripping myself apart for. How amazing it would be if I had real goals or dreams, but for some reason,
I’ve never been the type to get my hopes up, and I can’t imagine actually letting myself want something. I don’t know if I can handle the disappointment of my hard work not paying off. I tell myself that in order to start living this life I need different bones. Different from the ones I have now. Bones full of spirit that keep me going, full of confidence that makes me believe I am great and one day others would see that. But instead they are weak and brittle and break a little bit every time someone raises their voice or looks at me like I’m stupid. I have these moments often where I say to myself, this is not my life. I daydream all the time and create new lives for myself, but this Chicago fantasy may be my favorite so far. In this life I fantasize that my eyes are piercing brown with intelligence and not like scared prey. I stand up tall, all of my witty remarks land, and I wear the clothes that I want. I walk fast with purpose but I’m not running away from anything. I wear silver hoop earrings everyday and I’ve finally found a signature perfume scent. I’ve been in love and I’ve been so heartbroken that I rode the Chicago “L” train back and forth for a whole day, but for this part of my life, writing is my main love. In this life I’m only waitressing for the first half of my 20s. I never give up, and through myself and the universe publishers take a chance on me. My career gains some more momentum from there. The struggle doesn't end, but I start seeing everything I’ve done, all the risks I’ve taken, pay off. Years and years later, I am an accomplished and established writer. I move to San Francisco, and I feel peace and satisfaction fall gently on me. I have lunch with a friend who I missed dearly, and as the waitress puts down my food in front of me, I turn and look at the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, creating a pathway between here and there.