The person I should’ve been is currently writing electronic ambient music. He’s lost in the world of sounds, transported by their possibilities. He walks through the wetlands to get inspiration. Everywhere he looks, there’s the motion of water, slow and fast, contained within reeds and frogs or flowing through streams and settling in muddy pools. And in his mind the water is translated into sound.

He’s focused, or at least he’s able to be focused some of the time. He doesn’t worry too much about his identity; he’s more focused on what he wants to do and see, and questions of who he is sometimes arise, but they don’t feel too urgent usually. He thinks of who he in relation to other people and parts of the world: as a friend, as a son, as a human being, as a romantic partner. But he doesn’t analyze himself obsessively. He doesn’t constantly worry about whether he’s “good enough” or whether he’s whole or not. He doesn’t ponder ending his life because he finds ways to be curious about living it.

After he finishes writing music for the night, the person I should’ve been falls asleep. He has a dream of a castle in the sky that frogs live in. The king frog wants him to complete a quest. He gets given a scroll with a map drawn on it of the frog kingdom. He slides down from the castle on a kind of blue-colored steel ramp. He wakes up before the rest of the dream happens, and he’s a little annoyed, but it’s alright. The dream was pretty good until he woke up. 

He gets out of bed without difficulty, without wondering what the point of living another day is, without the heavy recollection of the night before going on for too long, without the sad realization of who he is filling his awareness. And he walks to work, observing the world around him and wondering about it.