What shall be me after a decade from now?

Perhaps, I must consider that I am an ambitious girl; so maybe that’s the reason why, every time I would look outside our wooden window as I stir the coffee in front of me, vivid pictures from the future—perhaps, the greatest products of a mere imagination—continuously flicker on the white canvass behind my head. There was even a time when the flow of pictures brought me into certain visualization and found myself stirring the same cup of coffee, that time, in front of giant window glasses. From the window—as the coffee’s aroma entered my nostrils—I found the figure of Eiffel tower drawn over white roofs and some rows of green trees. As I rose and made my heels meet the marble floor, I was caught by the mirage of other skyscrapers on the black, piano-finished desk which had the yellow stickers bearing my kinky penmanship. And from that sight, a silhouette of a laptop, a white container housing at least thirty ball-pens and piles of papers—either clean or crumpled—suddenly popped up on the right side of my eyes. And as I slowly turned around, I found out that I was inside a condo-sized room, designed with the most modernistic, geometrical furniture of neutral colours.

The air was a metropolitan glamour, with some classical complements due to the golden curls printed on the couch’s pillows. But at one side, the sight of the crumpled papers messing up the marble floor, and the laptop working up for up to 24/7 gave me many reasons to be contemptuous upon this careless freak who was on her way to ruin her small-found heaven. Perhaps, I think now, it might be the side-effect of being so obsessed upon letters and the time—fancying that letters loved her so much and that time was the most precious thing for her boss who phoned her every five hours. And for those, she was afraid of losing her job and the sight of Eiffel tower there by her window so, as much as possible, she wouldn’t waste a time and stick her butt again on her seat and do several scratches for a single article featuring how the painting of Mona Lisa was cleverly freed from the world-class security of Louvre. However, my imagination is not as exotic as Conan Doyle’s or Einstein’s; eventually, I tend to stop there in the robbery—the more complicated details of my fancying would always be an ellipsis.
Yes, I always dreamt of becoming a good writer—making a good profit in a good place. And as I think of a good writing, a popular magazine would always be there in my head, and when it’s a good profit, a residence in a good place like Paris would always be my mind’s destination.
However, if this is my ultimate dream,—perhaps, what might be that person whom I’m hoping to become after a decade from now—I shouldn’t be just a magazine writer. Perhaps, that shall only be a part of a more ambitious idea, i.e. a sideline during my free times. I will become a novelist—an international best seller at its most daring sense whose name will be printed on numerous feature articles. Perhaps, I will be known for the humour and wit that I write, and may also be criticized sometimes in some internet forums for the complexity of my introductions. My novels will also be translated into different languages and most of them, if not be bought for the purpose of reading, will only be bought as accessories for those whose only knowledge was to follow the trends. Many would recognize me as I march the streets of Paris—most will greet me while others will only pretend that they didn’t see me.

I will be scrupulously intellectual about arts and literature; become accustomed on playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons using my violin; be a socialite but will never smoke or be excessive of wines and overtimes; become blissful and still striving for more, after finishing my greatest accomplishment of giving Mama her dream house in Maryland.

But then, when I lifted the cup and almost fried my tongue out of surprise and the dangerous heat of the coffee, my spine trembled as I was suddenly brought back into consciousness. Afterwards, I realized that I am just twenty-eight for that time! And only a great miracle will be the key to make it there at such an early age. For these, I had concluded that—yes—it is indeed a reality that the most impossible dreams are the easiest things to imagine.

Perhaps, after ten years from now,—if I will be considering the realities of life and not just be leaning everything into my fictional hoping—my life will be much like the kind of existence which I’m having now. Perhaps, I will still be as inclined to writing as I am now, though my back will be much straighter in doing it after affording a comfortable upholstered chair, which I will be placing beside the wooden window of our house. However, I shall be more conscious about doing it: avoiding verbosity and the unnecessary use of dashes and adjectives. Maybe, I will be writing for a school magazine which I am one of the editors and will be delighted after seeing a student reading my column.

Perhaps, every six a.m., I will find myself in front of a mirror wearing a light make-up and a peach uniform. Then by seven, I will be greeted by each student who will pass my way and will greet vivaciously in return; be terribly cheerful about seeing my colleagues inside the office; and be conscious about the dusts on my table, making me wipe them off with a green cloth.

Perhaps, every time I travel home, more students will greet me on the path walks—some sincere, but most only feel that they’re obliged to do it but, I will not be troubled and will still smile back at them. And upon arriving home, I will be exhausted and untidy but, still, will update my lesson plan by six in the evening and just kiss my Mama ‘good night’ by ten.

Perhaps, I will be making a satisfactory profit: enough for helping my parents and sending my siblings to college. But my niche will still be in our old house which I will learn to love more as we develop its width. Perhaps, I will also be able to save much money for I will still be as thrifty as I am today—causing me to have a no-better clothes and stuffs by that time, but will make me think that I am getting richer each day.
Maybe, that’ll be the life for me after ten years—simple but believable. But the fire inside me will never be put out. I know, beyond those years, there’re a lot more opportunities to come. I am still young by then and, perhaps, more aware. Whoever I may become, I am confident that I will be a good investment for the society and for my family.

Who knows, maybe, by thirty, my life would suddenly be changed after joining in a writing contest, or perhaps, participating in a Wherever-it-is Got Talent. Or maybe, I will meet a not-so-sociable Englishman who owns an estate in Bath; and after a week, fall for his unvoiced humour and unique sensibility and be married to him the next month. And after five years, I will be a mother to two children whose eyes are brown but whose hairs are blonde. And—who knows again?—after those, my ultimate dream will also be pursued, having been married to this loving and supportive man. Who knows?

Or who knows, by thirty-five, it might be the other way around; unfortunately, this man will not be able to find me and be married to another. And I? I will never be known by any other man as wonderful as him; and will never be persuaded to marry a chap from the neighbourhood. Then, I will just be me, getting older but still in the same house—dreaming, and breathing in the aroma of my coffee.