If there were one thing 
I could choose to be for the rest of my life,
I would be an Impressionist:
Not by way of  paint brush,
but by way of my every waking action.

I want to live
as Monet, Manet,
Renoir, and Degas
painted: not for the appearance,
but for the feeling.

I want to see the world
as Monet saw the French waters at sunrise:
not as a mere scene
to be exactly replicated
for the pride of mastery,
but as a feeling—
as a personal interpretation.

I wish to live, day-by-day,
recognizing more
than just the shell
of a moment in time:
I wish to see more
than just its appearance—
I wish to feel its atmosphere,
I wish to linger in the light it radiates.

If there were one thing I could wish for,
it would be this:
For the strength to live
with strokes of lightness,
with colors that don’t match
what can obviously be seen,
but with colors that fit
my intuitions.

I wish to see waves
lapping against the shore,
and instead of lingering on the formation
in which they crash,
I will hear whispers of laughter
and grasp the salt-soaked pleasures
of a fleeting moment on the sand.

I will not allow
the material worries,
the visual shell of a moment,
or the preconceived notions
of what is “right”
To distract me from appreciating
the simplest,
most profound
aspects of life

For it is these wonders:
Laughter on a lazy sunday afternoon,
the glint of light on water,
the graceful movement of a dancer’s leg,
the serenity of a cathedral at dusk:
These sort of pure, everyday,
simple pleasures,
that are too often overlooked.

I will not paint my days
in a rigidly “realistic” manner,
but in a truthfully
unrealistic manner:
I will paint my days
by how things feel to me,
not by how they appear
to anyone else.

So if I had to choose
one thing to be in this life,
I would say this:

I wish to be an Impressionist.
I wish to make my own impressions.