Winter Daydreams

In my New York winter (day)dreams, I’ve run away to somewhere in the middle of the sparsely populated west—preferably to Wyoming; maybe Cheyenne, maybe some time in June. This non-memory stands in blunt contrast to the reality of bitter cold and inescapable urban chaos.

I’ve made a friend. Going back a few moments, I pull into the parking lot of a 24-hour mart on the outskirts of the city. The sun set fifteen-or-so minutes ago and it's not quite dark yet. It's warm outside and the air has this slightly smoky-dry scent. I'm wearing a grey thermal (despite the temperature of approximately 78 degrees) over a black tank top, tight jeans that are a darker shade of grey, threadbare black socks, and all-black tennis shoes that are now covered in a thin layer of light brown, dusty clay from the road trip. It's quiet. Quiet and dream-like. Still and surreal. And that's the moment I meet my new friend.

At that moment, I could (theoretically) be anyone. I could have come from anywhere. Still, I choose to be myself. Beyond that very first moment of meeting my new friend, I'm not sure about the catalyst or the content of those first few sentences. Daydreams are allowed some plot holes. But I do know that at some point in the not-very-distant future--an amount of hours beyond 24 but still in the double digits--I'm in the passenger seat choosing the next song on an old, beat up iPod through a cassette tape auxiliary cord, and the window is cracked open. It doesn't matter where we're going because THIS precise moment is the adventure by definition, and it's all I really want.