The assembly of rhythms occupy the house.

In the fury of a youthful mood, I shared a conversation about dreams of future. We all asked each other about what we wanted to do and to be, wondering within whether the form of our ideal paths could be made into something lived and substantial. Each thought hard, negotiating in their minds the fought pull between things dreamed and restrictively realistic. And at my turn, I gave my answer. I have given it several times before to friendly smirks and prods, resulting from the swift recitation I was able to give. So by this occasion I had learned to pretend at hesitation and spontaneity in my answer, feigning a surprise at the development of my own wishes. It eases the reception when the delight of my first answer is to have two dogs (maybe more), a cat, and a horse, to live near some woods and meadows where I can ride through mornings while my seat and my eyes still higher than the cool sun at dawn and dusk. Among these souls, I would want to be a writer, enough to subsist in such a place. And if not that, then I would love to be a professor, where I would then also be reading as much as I am writing, but can actively relate my own ideas to a whole community of others on a basis that would be so brilliantly regular. And then, if neither of those things, then I would seek to own a cafe, with a lending library and a little shelf of board games. A cafe that would host knitting circles and philosophy reading groups, and invite art exhibitions and musical performances. And among all of those things, my days and my writing will be composed with thoughts of love. Those are all things that I can do, I think, and all of which would make me happy enough. To live in such circumstances, and to be among such furry souls, is now my youthful path to seek. When I think of them, I feel pleased at the simplicity by which they are thought, for my negotiation between a dream and my own steps can include all those with ease. All except for one--though one that is now beyond me.