Dragons Over Los Angeles

Why ordinary life sometimes feels too small for the imagination that lives inside it.

I’m sitting at a café in Los Angeles at the end of February. It should be cooler than this, but it’s 90 degrees. The ice in my matcha has melted. An empty yogurt cup sits beside me.

Earlier, a man completely dominated a conversation with a woman at the table next to mine. Maybe she wanted to hear everything he had to say. Maybe not. Maybe they were coworkers, or maybe they were on a first date.

“It’s good to meet you in person, finally,” he told her.

“Likewise!” she said.

He prattled on about things that don’t matter. She listened.

In the corner, a small wiry dog started snarling at two lumbering older black labs named Lona and Maia, who couldn’t care less about his outburst. They smell, but they seem sweet. Their owners are eating overpriced but delicious avocado toast.

This is one of my favorite places to come and write because it makes me feel like a productive adult. I think if I just get out of the house, inspiration will strike. I’ll meet someone who pushes my life forward. I’ll be the girl of someone’s dreams. The sun will cascade over my skin just right, and for a moment, I’ll become mythical.

I think about other people’s thoughts too much. How do they perceive me? Or, just as devastatingly—perhaps they don’t.

I tell myself I don’t know what to write about. I often feel it’s too much. That I’ll be judged, or told—no, not like that. Tell us who you are, but not like that. Say it better. Feel less. Say more.

I think about how much I’d love to live someplace that doesn’t exist. That everything here—this café, this lukewarm matcha, the subtle pang of hunger in my stomach, the way my fingers slide over my keyboard—is not enough. I imagine how much more interesting it would be if the sky suddenly opened and a dragon flew over Los Angeles.

I’ve always done this—when the present moment feels too small, my mind sometimes leaves Earth entirely.

I think about Wolftopia—the planet a NASA intern discovered in 2019, just three days into his internship. I only think of Wolftopia because of the imagery it inspired, the metaphor it keeps becoming. Its surface swirls blue and pink and white. The atmosphere is made of pink cotton candy and tastes like ice-cold sorbet. Wolftopia is for the girls and gays only. She is an escape. She is beauty personified. She is a refuge.

It’s easy to romanticize. I wish for better every moment of every day.

Maybe if I could learn to tolerate the present moment, I’d stop thinking about dragons over Los Angeles, or distant pastel planets, or the perfect version of everything. Maybe I’d find some peace.

But I am here again, at a café in Los Angeles, waiting for my meter to run out. My cup is empty.