I am especially well-suited to living in a world of my own.

In this world I’ve formed, there lives my imagination.

It is not a touristy place, nor is it governed by schedule or social custom,
but rather a carefully tended space wherein each thought, memory, sound, and scent is admitted by invitation only.
That which enters must earn its place—not by popularity, but by purpose.

She is not idle.
She is industrious, with a gift for travel so swift and sure,
she may move from century to century without a change of wardrobe or the faintest creak of a carriage wheel.

At the sound of a piano in a far room,
I may find myself quite suddenly seated in a western parlour, the air thick with sun and story.
Another moment, and I am upon the cliffs of Portugal, the strings of a guitar trailing down into the sea.
And just as easily, I am drawn into a Victorian chamber, laced in elegance,
where the corset is not a constraint—but an adornment of conviction.

My world is quiet, and yet it hums.
It is filled not with the youth of age, but the youth of wonder—
the sort that allows one to believe, still,
that a new thought, a new place, a new version of oneself
may be waiting just around the corner of one’s own mind.

I live each day not entirely where my feet are,
but also where my spirit drifts.

And so I say it plainly, and with no need of embellishment:
I am good at living in my own world.
And I shall continue to do so with great devotion and quiet joy—
ever content to change my name, my pace, my scenery.