Sometimes I wonder if I am not really here, and that I am in fact still in my great grandparents’ house, in bed, dreaming of my future life. And as the dream advances, the life I dream of is a life that I do not want. What began as a curiosity, a mere looking at future possibilities just for the fun of it, has by now become an intolerable nightmare from which I am unable to awaken by myself. So as the weeks and months and years pass, I grow more and more desperate for someone to come and wake me up. And when they do, I will be seven again, and I will have to go to school and once again be frustrated by fractions and by words I cannot read, and it won’t make any sense being a child again because I already know what it is like to be an adult. So what they teach me at school, I will already know, won’t I? For I have already learned it in my dream. If so, learning it again will be the most boring thing. But perhaps this time, guided by the recollections of my dream, I will be able to do things better, and make different choices, and this time construct a life that I am not ashamed of. If only I could wake up.
I want to wake up and find that all those changes that seem to have punctuated my life never really happened at all, and everything can get back to normal.