I thought I could be a ballerina, toes squished and waist thin

leaping through the air like a silvery moth, gliding through

the bleeding streetlights of some place wonderfully disfunctional,

like New York, or Los Angeles.

At the same time, I wanted and wanted and wanted

so many pieces of futures I glimpsed, caught like a fish on a hook

across restaurantes, on page 9 of Vogue, the flashing advertisements on TV. 

Ballerina at 8am, opera singer at 9am, fashion designer at 10am, fashion model at 11am

best selling author at 12am master chef at 1pm comic artist at 2pm Oscar winning director at 3pm cake decorater at 4pm math teacher at 5pm photographer at 6pm mother and grandmother at 7pm and professional sleeper at 8pm. 

Who knew that life 

is so short? So condensed that you can't

stir all the spices you like in at the same time or else

it'll come out all yucky and brown, too many overlaps.

But the best job of them all, the one with nice clean colors 

is one where I 

may sleep with my head on my pillow

and only dream one dream that night.