You wake up one morning, you barely open your eyes, and you see it all drawn in front of you like a Monet, you see where every red poppy stands and stretches its flamboyant petals to the sun, you see every swaying twig of fresh grass and every shadow appeasing with its cool fingers the red-brown brazing summer soil, you see the sky looking over you and all its other children with gentle infinitely blue eyes, you see the road that leads to the proud, solemn oaks, sternly guarding the gates to the infinite unknown, you see the small brick house where you will spend the first few nights before you carry on with your journey, you see the people who will be your friends and those who will be your enemies, you see your love, you see your children, you almost see the traces of your own footsteps before you even take that road, kick the gravel, and lift the dust off your path.
But when the actual journey starts, you find yourself slowly immersed in an entirely unfamiliar landscape, glazed with the uncomfortable feeling of not being, and not belonging to where you ought to belong. But you don't turn back, and you don't stop, because what lies ahead is still what you had envisioned, and you keep moving towards it, realizing with every step, of every day, of every year, that this was going to be it for you. It. No more Monet's on the horizon, but an angry, uncaring sky that mostly looks away, a difficult road with many dark turns and strange footsteps none of them your own, many dead twigs, thorns, and hungry red poppies that feed on flies, a lonely empty house with a broken door and a stone pillow, strange people who are neither friends nor enemies who don't even know you exist, loves lost or never found, loves mistaken, children unborn.
None of this is bad though. None of it is as sad as it sounds. But that's life for you. Expect little and your sorrows will be few. Dream it ahead of time, and you will leave it with nothing but a wrinkled heart, and a big, thirsty tear in your eye.