Home.

I see you sitting by the window, looking out into a meadow, green as far as the eye can see, a river in front, perhaps a lake, even a pond will do. There are sheep or goats, flocks of geese, but it's not a farm. I see mountains in the horizon, grey, looming with patches of sunlight on top. I see you by the window, frowns and wrinkles as you think about what to write next, as I do now.

I see you content for a long stretch of time, perhaps a year, or half a year, a month at least, your daughter outside on the greens, playing with friends, happy, safe. It is a safe little community, not a cult, not a commune, a community, a neighbourhood, where little girls and boys can play outside and bask in the sunshine. They can study under the trees and the stars. It rains sporadically, but the sunshine is all year round, every day.

I see you in the evenings, with your favourite glass of prosecco, make that two. Your partner cooks, you clean, the roles that you both employ even now, that works, that doesn't change in the future. Your writing sells, you can stay in this idyll for a while, the air is fresh, the waters untainted. You love your community.

I know you think the only constant is change, but you don't crave the parties, the late nights, then the beauty starts to grate. The child is young or perhaps not too old, old enough to crave change as you do, as your partner does. I see the smile on your face when he tells you he is ready to sell off this sliver of paradise and move somewhere more real.

I see you lie awake at nights wondering about your next adventure. You see lights, buzz, excitement. You travel and end up in Paris, or perhaps Lisbon, Barcelona, Addis Ababa, Seoul, Istanbul. Your apartment is small, but quaint. Your daughter has a tiny room to herself as well, thats the saving grace. Your partner and you take up work. Getting back out into the urban world is exhilarating and confusing at the same time.

You love the cafes with that intoxicating smell of fresh coffee, you love the restaurants with cuisines from all over the world, the parks substitute the meadows you got used to, the skyscrapers replace the mountains, the city sounds replace the rush of the winds, but life is fun, if somewhat lonely at times. The city is individualistic, independent and you are expected to be the same. You accept the challenge, you are aloof, but your partner is outgoing, the combination attracts friends. Your daughter makes friends too. Days turn into weeks, perhaps months, then years. You work, play, party, travel, work, play, party, travel, work, play, party, travel and then before you know it, your child grows up, and you don't know her at all. Your partner usurps all the sunshine and you are left with none.

You feel you are losing your identity, and you decide to leave. You never thought that would happen. It is all amicable, there are no tears, no drama.

You move to a beach town, not too far from a city. You know the deep highs of nature and the deep lows of isolation, but the city seeps all your energy. You swim in the ocean and you go for walks and run on the beach, you meet the transient beach community and you have delicious interludes with strangers. You have all the ties you need and you don't want anything permanent, but somewhere you feel incomplete.

Somewhere life is too easy now, has it robbed you of purpose you feel. The cars drive themselves. Travel to the edge of space is cheaper now, its takes you two hours to travel from New York to Shanghai, war has ceased, not because people want peace, but climate change has taken over and there are mass migrations of people looking for safe haven.

You find that beach town which is not ravaged yet, you get a pretty cottage, white with picket fences, you make candles, or perhaps you bake, perhaps you make jewellery, you are a nomad, a digital nomad. The days pass in bliss, you cook and compost, you sleep and wake up early, you discover the joys of late life sex, you leave behind social media, reality stars, movies, any screens, you devour books, squinting your eyes, you call your daughter hoping she will visit, and she visits often with her friends, lovers, she is in her own world, late teens, oblivious in the joys of her being, her youthfulness.

You call your partner, he sounds well, but there is an angst on both sides, starting over is not easy. You feel he is fine, he knows so many people, but both of you feel nostalgia creep in, he finally breaks down, he misses you. You are out of his shadow, you miss him too. He has joined a salsa class, is dating the teacher, you roll your eyes, what a cliché, you left him to grow, but why does growth feel so hollow.

You rest your thoughts a while, you wanted to write a profound letter, you wanted to be a superstar, an astronaut, a bestselling writer, you wanted to be someone, you were told to write a letter to your future self in the self motivation course you are taking and yet all you think about and speak about are your partner and daughter. Change the beach, the city, the mountains, the lake town, they are your constant.

It has been a year since you saw them last, a year since you wanted to find yourself, a year since you felt stifled by your domesticity, you tried to manipulate the torrent of words in your mind, sway their direction, change your life, but what is a life change anyway. You stop this letter to your future. You need to live your life now, but love and family is what stops the hollowness so you reach out for it. You stop typing and you pick up the phone and call your mother. It is time to roll with her in the waves. It is time to come home.