we are the authors of our own future right?
i want to go to Paris. to write a book. to get a PhD. to get married, have babies, live happily ever after. to never get married, to travel the world, to adopt a baby, to never adopt a baby.
i don’t want anything. oddly. that’s the thing i feel to be most true. i want nothing. except God. faith. belief. trust. peace. joy.
i want to be happy whether i end up alone, working at Wal-mart with a three legged cat (i hate effing cats.) or dr. me with a renovated loft in the city and sprawling ranch house in the burbs, and two tiny people with my father’s eyes, and my hardiness. no matter what. i want to be, i will be happy. because we… we are the authors of our future, right? that’s what they say. but even if they’re wrong… if it’s not us, but God (as i suspect it is) who is the author of our future: i want to be, i will be… happy. it’s a promise. a proclamation.