Here’s a fantasy:

I’d like to pack up the living room, and carefully place it inside my backpack. I’d take it with me everywhere I’d go. Not only would the comfort of home provide a sense of peace, but it would allow me all the privacy I need.

You see, I’d unpack the invisible room cliffside, the never-ending ocean my only view. Then, I’d grab a cup of coffee, plop down onto my big denim chair, pop open the laptop, and spend the afternoon writing.

Ah, serenity.

Or, maybe I’d cruz into the middle of a large area where crowds of people spend the day, say Central Park in New York, and I’d unpack my secret space and enjoy the scenery without anyone seeing me. So fun. So voyeuristic. So sneaky.

Oh, so entertaining.

I could imagine that I’d jump on an airplane, backpack and room my only companions, and travel abroad. I’d plant my imagination into the middle of an African Safari, smack dab where the animals roam. I’d watch with a fascination unlike no other. So close. So personal.

So crazy-wild.

But, here I sit, in my living room, wishing, dreaming, and writing, knowing that not all fantasies come true.