She Wished She Was a Gypsy

She always wished she was a gypsy.

She wanted to be one of those bright, colorful people who roamed Europe and other fantasy worlds in painted wagons. She knew, of course, that her perceptions were much too colored by too much reading and too much imagination, but that hardly mattered. She wished she was a gypsy.
She could imagine wild, musical nights spent at the side of warm, glowing fires and laughter and wood smoke. She craved violins and tambourines and spinning, spinning, spinning into star-filled nights with the tinkling of jewelry and a trail of scarves flying into the darkness.

She could imagine fortune tellers in all their mystery and exotic talents peering into the past and the future. She envisioned crystal balls catching candlelight and twisting into dream-filled wonder in their hearts, and cards that speak whole stories through their ancient images.

She wished she was a gypsy.

She would escape the mundane of every day if given half a chance. She moved into new houses often enough, but they were all firmly nailed to the ground and never wandered off like she thought they should. She changed jobs whenever the old one became too tedious and boring, but none of them was music-filled or involved dreams in candlelight.

She was not brightly colored. She was quiet and never drew attention to herself.

Her talents were not rare or exotic, and they were hardly mysterious, and the only spinning, spinning, spinning she knew was the swirling dance in her own imagination.

Oh, how she wished she was a gypsy.

She travelled in her habits and in her mind and in her dreams. Her imagination carried her to far away and magical lands like Europe and other fantasy worlds. She sought out the colorful and mysterious and unique all around her. She craved magic and looked for it in everyday things. She set her free spirit loose and let it wander until it found every beautiful and magical thing it could find.

Fires in the night were still filled with music. And sometimes there could still be spinning, spinning, spinning and laughter and stars.

She always wished she was a gypsy, but she knew she would never be. She was always just a nomad, and that was beautiful, too.