I Want To Live

There are days when I wake up and I can’t wait to live. Not just exist. Not just go through the motions of another day. But live.

I close my eyes and I see it—the life waiting for me, the one I will step into someday. A home tucked far, far away from the noise. Not completely isolated, but peaceful. Quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel lonely, but safe. The kind of quiet that welcomes you like a soft embrace.

I want to live near water. Not too close, not too far. Just enough that I can hear the soft whispers of waves when the world gets too loud. Just enough that I can take slow walks by the shore, breathing in air that smells like freedom. Just enough that on days when I feel heavy, I can sit by the water and let it carry the weight of my thoughts away.

A home with a living room that doesn’t just hold furniture, but holds love. A side of the room made entirely of glass—see-through, endless, open—overlooking a stretch of soft green grass, where the sun spills in like melted gold in the morning. A home that smells like vanilla and fresh coffee, where every corner feels like warmth.

I want a balcony. A place where we sit at night, the two of us, wrapped in the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled with words. My coffee will be hot, strong, and rich, my fingers typing away, updating my blog, pouring my soul into words. And beside me, my man, focused on his system, working, lost in his own world. The sound of slow, soft music humming in the background, weaving itself into the fabric of our lives.

I want to live in a city that breathes peace. Not a place where the streets are too crowded, where the air is thick with urgency. But a place where people smile at each other. Where kindness is not rare, where warmth is not something you have to dig for. A neighborhood where children play without fear, where love does not come with conditions, where skin color does not decide the worth of a soul.

I want to live in Sydney, Australia. I have always loved the way the water meets the land there—a shade of blue so deep, it feels like forever. I imagine the sound of waves breaking against the shore, the wind carrying the scent of salt and promise. I picture lazy afternoons spent reading by the ocean, toes buried in the sand, time slowing down just enough for me to breathe. There is something about the openness of Sydney that calls to me—a place that feels like a space to dream.

But then, I think of Amsterdam, Netherlands. And my heart stirs differently. The colorful buildings standing proudly, each one telling a story. The streets lined with bicycles, the air buzzing with life, a city that breathes art. I imagine myself walking through museum halls, my eyes tracing brushstrokes left behind by hands long gone, yet still alive on canvas. I see myself sitting by the canals, a notebook open on my lap, my thoughts flowing like the water beside me. Amsterdam is not just a place—it is a mood, a feeling, a heartbeat.

And then, there is New York. Loud, restless, alive. A city that does not wait for anyone, where dreams stretch high into the sky, reaching for something unseen. I want to live in a high-rise building, the city sprawled beneath me like an untamed masterpiece. I want to stand by the window at midnight, with my man, watching the lights flicker like a thousand unsaid stories. I want to feel the energy of a place that never sleeps, to be swallowed by its rhythm, yet somehow still find my own pace.

Some nights, I wonder where I will end up. Which of these dreams will unfold first? Maybe Sydney will be my peace. Maybe Amsterdam will be my poetry. Maybe New York will be my fire.

Maybe, just maybe, I will have them all.

For now, I wait. I dream. I write.

And one day, I will live.

With dreams I’ll get,
Neta.