Not only am I not allowed to go where I went, but I have written documentation that I am not allowed to go there. Not yet, anyways. Originally I thought that this task would fulfill trespassing the future, but as Mobius pointed out to me, it does not. Shame. But in my heart, this task will always be trespassing the future.

My future, that is.

I signed the lease on a house yesterday, at a McDonalds, on my lunch break. I move in February 1st, 2011. It will be slim pickings for a while, and, quite frankly, I am going to be pushing myself to the limit for quite sometime, but I am living my dream. (I promise that I shall succeed, which will be all the more impressive, because I am promising the impossible. That way, if I fail, it was impossible anyways.)

So I snuck in to my home, my cottage, my future in the dark of the night, and sat on the empty hard wood floors. I closed my eyes in the dark, and I could feel myself busseling around in the following summer. I am sitting on the floor, but I am also cleaning furiously as my daughter stomps behind me, laughing as she makes messes where I have just cleaned. Her hair is almost to her shoulders, and she puts her fist, tinier even than the rain, in to her mouth and opens her wide blue eyes and for a second, we are looking at each other - me, the mother who is trying so hard to create her reality, and her, my daughter of the future. She reaches for me, and I can hear my voice - the future me's voice - calling from the kitchen.

"Teagan? I've made snacks, come eat with me. What are you looking at? Teagan?"

I open my eyes and I am sitting once again on a cold hard wood floor, my breath coming out in tiny puffs of air.

I'm tired and hungry and sore, and tomorrow I have to do it all over again.

But I will keep striving for that happy future, that happy place of tomorrow.

And I lock the door when I leave. It's really just common courtesy.