This week I went to a funeral for someone my age. The next day I looked at Alice in the backseat of my car and had a memory of what it was like to be tiny. Not what tiny looks like when you observe it like a grown-up, but rather a real memory of what the world looks like from inside a tiny person. There are these lyrics from a Hilary Duff song (for real) that say, I've got somewhere I belong, I've got somebody to love, this is what dreams are made of, and I can't stop thinking about how annoyingly and ridiculously poetic that kind of is. For real.
I've got somewhere I belong.
I've got somebody to love.
This is what dreams are made of.