I see it all now that you're gone

I see it all now that you're gone

When I live in Paris I imagine that maybe I'll be a painter, and I'll bring my paints to Pere Lachaise and sit on one of those benches with the cute old men and paint the lipstick kisses on Oscar Wilde's tombstone, paint the way the light reflects off the ground when it's wet, paint the tunnel formed by the branches of the trees as they arch over the cobblestone paths.  On rainy days I'll sit in coffee shops and jump in fountains and never wear a beret.  And when I live in Venice (which I'll only do during the non-touristy months) I'll never walk alone outside at night because it's impossible not to get lost there, and I'll be one of those locals who never actually pays for their vaporetto tickets, and I'll track down all the good local jewelers and decorate my itsy-bitsy apartment with one-of-a-kind pieces.  I'll learn Italian and make friends with all the Italian hipster boys, and I'll work in an art museum, and I'll actually enjoy what I'm doing.

I feel like I usually do, and that is like I'm wasting time, like I'm just waiting for something to happen that will change the way I feel about school and my friends and my future and my haircut.  I'm feeling like a new haircut again, although I can't keep doing that or I won't have any left to cut off.  And lately I've been looking at pictures of these gorgeous celebrities with long hair, and now I'm thinking maybe I want to grow mine out again.  But it always drives me crazy when it's long.  Isn't that how things usually work, though?