Imagination is Stupid

My brother is in town. He drove up three days ago. I’ve been fantasizing about taking his car for an afternoon and driving to the beach or driving to the country or driving anywhere, at all. Imagining this brings me so much joy; my shoulders relax thinking of being out of the city. The car is parked in front of the house. He leaves tomorrow.

If I ever have extra money coming in, like from freelance work, or my second job, I spend days, weeks even, imagining what I’ll do with it. I mostly imagine spending it in a lump sum. This check will pay of the rest of this credit card, this check will buy a plane ticket, this check will buy new running shoes, this check will go to an expensive theater ticket. I’m proud of myself for my sensible planning, my ability to plan ahead to treat myself and make good decisions. The money always goes to: food, drinks, cabs, whatever.

Some days I wake up hours before my alarm, and half asleep, I lie in bed and think about what I could do with this extra time. I imagine getting up, going for a run, sitting at a desk with a pen and paper and writing, you know, longhand, like we are all supposed to do each day, making myself breakfast and sitting by the window with coffee. In my head it feels so great to be making good decisions, changing up my routine, starting my day off early and right. I fall back asleep with a smile on my face, and sleep through my next two alarms.

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