When I saw myself in my twenties, I always imagined living in an apartment (nothing exaggerated), with an artistic and juvenile style (and minimalistic), something a writer in the 1920’s would’ve had. I saw myself leaning on my balcony (because of course, I had one), my hair a bit messy, straightening my glasses to appreciate the sunrise over the city, and the steam from my coffee cup contrasting the temperature of the world outside. I imagined myself going through the things I had to do that day in my mind without the sightless preoccupation, although a bit excited and slightly being unable to believe my life was really like that… on the background booming out of my room, the sound music, Jazz, the gorgeous trumpet, the chaotic and yet perfect drums in perfect synchrony, the subtle piano, and the ever so sensual Sax. The type of music that feeds my old soul and that brings a certain excitement to every moment, the score I would love my life to have. I would be searching for the right suit, for what shirt to mix it with, for the right shoes and tie. I would pack my suitcase with the relevant papers for the day, and go out into the city… to write about it, save it, capture its beauty, romanticize it, so everyone could fall in love with it as I have.

And the funny thing is… I am now in my twenties, and I’m very close to achieving that which I imagined so long ago.