the only moment we were alone.

the hopes and fears of all these years are here with us tonight.

I don’t want to go to college. It seems silly to think we all go through so much school to eventually get jobs we hate, to make money for things we don’t need, so we can maybe be happy…

I don’t want any of that. I don’t want to lose the small ounce of spirit I have, I want to fuel it. I want to actually live. I want to act on every stupid, illogical, happy, loving, insane, momentary whim I have. Without any regrets. I want it to be perfect. I want to live for happiness and only that (and, by no means, does that mean I will resort to a life of frequent cocaine use combined with garnishes of methamphetamines)… I just don’t want to waste any more time. I have all these dreams, and I don’t ever want them to go to waste; sometimes I think it’s a terrible idea to dream. Generally, you’re let down. And, I will be let down. I have been let down. Every one faces disappointment and regret (they’re looming factors in everyone’s lives) they’re a natural part of a life. Yes, a shitty part. But, a significant part, nonetheless.

All I want to do with my life is own a bookstore. I want to move to the coast and own a corner bookstore… the one where you walk in and you immediately feel like your home (even if it’s not your home, it’ll be my home). I want trees and owls and paintings and pictures and vintage wallpaper and wooden floors and bookshelves to the ceilings filled with freshly printed novels filled with people’s profound words. I want this place to be filled with everything I love in the world, my utopia I guess you could say. A quaint coffee bar in the back, serving your favorite fixes. The sections divided in an organized manner, but still allotting the perfect amount of a spontaneous transition; a pleasant mix of chaos and perfection. I want the floors to creak, occasionally, under your feet as you stroll down the aisles… your hand tracing over every spine on the shelf, searching for the one that makes your heart jump. I want to know everyone’s names when they walk in, and I want them to know mine. I want my big Australian shepherd, whose name happens to be Winston, to lie in the back, exhausted from old age, absorbing the different smells and the familiar faces.

I want to love that place, and I will. It’s impossible not to love a place that’s filled with everything that makes you happy. No impersonal jargon, no overwhelming sounds, definitely not filled with trashy romance novels and books that shouldn’t even be considered literature, no harsh lighting, no tacky decorating… just wonderful. soft, acoustic music playing in the back (all from the bands I hold dear to my heart like Death Cab for Cutie, Manchester Orchestra, some Little Joy, Brand New… the works), the bookshelves filled classics and books that everyone should read. Instead of critiques from the NY times, critiques from me and the staff. It will be a refuge to the lonely, from life and from hard times… just likes the novels in which it holds. Just like the novels which I hold so dear to my heart. I want this place more than anyone can imagine.