D is for dreams

On days like these when I am feeling very blue and pensive, I dream of what kinda life I’d lead, if I weren’t so teetered to reality as I know it. There is no secret, I am very drawn to the sea. Perhaps one day we’ll sell everything, buy a boat-house and sail the seven seas. But tonight the dream is to open my own little tiki bar.


(Random photo online, if anyone knows somewhere like this tell me! I’d love to go)

What business I have (pun un intended) to open a tiki bar, i do not know, since I neither drink alcohol or coffee. But it’s my dream and I’m entitled. Serve up icy cold drinks with them little paper umbrellas, or iced teas with fruit bits. Grill a squid, garnish a hotdog. (Maybe a steaming bowl of udon — perfect for when you get the chills from a good swim)

My dogs will run in circles on the sand, yapping and having the time of their lives. Throw them sticks, push a flower into my hair. When it’s quiet in the afternoons, I’ll nap in my hammock under the shady tree– or read a book. Or write a book.

Music will be the likes of jack Johnson and I’ll make these seashell necklaces just because I can.

I’ll sleep in the back room, and at nights my friends will pop by to chat or eat a meal. Or come and nurse a cold beer on the wicker chairs I will have, outside. Oh, the stories of love lost and found, we will share. My old girlfriends will wolf whistle at these young surfer punks, and scoff at all the skinny girls in bikinis walking by. We were once a size 0. And the boys, will shoot some pool, play a little dart, or some poker with the waves of the sea in their ears.

My little place will be strung full of fairy lights. And I’ll hide little notes for customers to find– in the cracks of the wood of the tables, under their seats. Every table will have little coloured napkins and mismatched plates. Clink clang of Wind chimes will fill the air. And every table will have a herb. Which I will visit to pluck the leaves I need for the cooking.

And when I get bored of it all, we’ll just close up for the winter, and travel. And when we had enough we’d come back and do it all over again.


Author: c

my world, out of your reach

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