As I’m looking out my window on this Monday morning (it actually may be afternoon considering I just woke up), I see my eight year old self climbing up the little dirt hill in my backyard, pretending to be on a top secret mission. She was adventurous and even when slipping down that hill, kept a smile. I remember at that age how highly I thought about myself now, and all the specifics of my talents and abilities. It always seems that whenever I look out of this window, I’m not seeing what lies beyond the dusted glass pane, but I’m seeing someone I’m idealizing or someone that did. I see myself a couple years down the road with everything I value, and appearing as my best self, or I see the girl that craved a fantasy pretending to be in another world. I don’t think there’s been a point that I’ve truly been content being in the moment that I am existing in. I for one know at the age of eight I wasn’t dreaming of a procrastinating sixteen year old who goes through so many ups and downs. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing to have the highest of expectations for the future, it could just get you through the present. Yet that in itself is a flawed neglect of what every moment has to offer. That’s simply accepting that your scale of happiness will never be reached, even when it is right in front of you. I need to reconsider my glorification of the future in some blurred fiction representation of something so unobtainable. There’s a fine line between having aspirations, and of perfecting every single aspect of living, that in itself is not meant to be so polished. Walking that line is just the inevitable sentence to an unsatisfied life, and so I guess what I’m saying is that I need to appreciate where I am, rather the flawless expectation of what is to come. I need to look out of that window and see the leaves tumbling down, the wind waving through the plants, and myself as I am right now in this moment.