Work-Edited (FICTION)

Work, all I ever do is work.  All I know is work, and I am tired. I’m so tired of working.

I want to live! I want to see the beauties and wonders of the world, to travel all over the globe to find them. I want to ride an elephant in India and a camel in Egypt. I want to stand beneath the Eiffel Tower and feel small, then climb the Empire State Building and feel huge. I want to eat an exquisite lunch in some obscure Italian restaurant. I want the meal to melt in my mouth, as I savor each delicious bite of it. And then I want dessert – chocolate and strawberries! I want to swim in chocolate-covered strawberries! 

I want to be serenaded on a gondola in Venice, and hear sweet nothings whispered in my ear over a candlelit dinner in Ibiza. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China, and follow a tour-guide up the side of the Giza Pyramid, listening to him weave riddle upon mystery. I want to have a Latin lover, one who will love me and leave me. I want to cry over him for days as I imagine what could have been, and vow to never forget each beautiful moment we shared.

I have never been in love; I want to fall madly in love! I want to wake up in the morning and sing about how wonderful life is. I want to bake brownies for no reason, and think about my beloved all day and all night. I want to write his name over and over on a piece of paper, and color little hearts all around. I want to come up with names for our future children.

I want to make love on a moonlit beach, and not even worry about the sand mixing into my hair. I want to get lost in the moment, and forget Egypt, Ibiza, Venice, Paris and China; I want to forget my very name. Then I want him to remind me!

But all I ever do is work, and all I know is work. What for? What the hell am I working for?