I dream to be MacKenzie Scott. 

I dream of wealth — of hoarding it, having it, spending it leisurely,

                             of giving it away, of hiding it in plain clothes. 

I dream of land — of gardens, reserves, national parks, arboretums, 

                           manicured bushes and flower beds, 

                           of deep wilderness and climbing trees and 

                            jumping fish and catching them, 

                           of picnic tables and barbecues and shore lines 

                            and no closing hours. 

I dream of places to get lost into. 

                         Of coves, of bays, of paint-marked trees and free park maps. 

                         Secret gatherings. No trace behind. Laughter. Counting the stars.

                         Falling in love. Yakamoz. 

I live for the kindness of others. I live in between family and lonesome. I thought about it, and I don’t think I’d want it any other way. 

        Really, I don’t think I’m capable of much else. 

I dream of purpose, but I don’t dream of work. I turn away thoughts of competing in a system I know others have had more time, more experience, and have more resources than me. I don’t dream of that ambition. A business past down to me would’ve been nice, but it is too late for me to inherit a business now. 

I float between living (the romantic, carefree kind of living that money & time affords), meaning, money, healing, and pondering what’s wrong with me, and all the desperate attempts between.