Nurturing Spaces

Somewhere, there exists a perfect coffeehouse. The light is soothing, nothing like this coffeehouse I currently sit in. It is paneled in warm wood, nothing like this coffeehouse I currently sit in. It has local art on the walls, nothing like this coffeehouse I currently sit in. The espresso is rich with thick crema and a twist of lemon, and a piece of dark chocolate on the side, NOTHING like this coffeehouse I currently sit in. In the perfect coffeehouse, I can crawl in bleary-eyed after a day of writing and feel like I'm home, nothing like this coffeehouse I currently sit in. 

I think I've made myself clear about the coffeehouse I currently sit in.

One of the great things about being a writer is that I can create nurturing spaces that I can't find in real life, spaces that literally make me weepy-eyed. A kitten pile on a warm wood floor, a cottage in a place called Heaven, a coffeehouse where I can be completely unselfconscious, a toy shop where a young Kris Kringle builds wooden toys. A rainy alley where two people kiss for the first time, an attic where the sun shines in through a window, an auditorium with perfect acoustics.

If I encountered my imagination in real life, I would wonder if I was in heaven, which means I'd wonder if I was dead, and whether the afterlife would be a place where I literally walked through my imagination. That wouldn't be bad as long as I didn't indulge the darker parts of my imagination.