I am hopelessly, irrepressibly, simply lost in a daydream. Passing me in the halls, you could possibly, most likely, be thinking "Who is that girl and why does she look like she's dreaming with her eyes open?" The answer is simple: Because I am dreaming with my eyes open.
A daydream is nothing more than a thought evolving into an image. It needs no storyboard, no plot. It doesn't even have to end with a 'happily ever after', although that is where most of my recent mind-tangents have been after being rudely interrupted. Daydreams grow creativity, spark ideas, and happen to be a nasty distraction.
Don't get me wrong--I love my daydreams. When I tunnel deep into my mansion of thoughts, I find true love. I find success and I can find light even in the darkest of all my rooms. My bedroom holds my most private thoughts, my most sincere desires, while my kitchen, (only a few doors down), leans towards my cravings and initial wants. I never do math or physics, but sometimes I see numbers counting the stairs or sidewalk cracks. What happens in my bathroom stays in the bathroom.
Now see where you've gotten me? I'm so much of a homebody that I've almost given you an entire tour. The thing you need to understand is that my daydreams are consuming me. This is slowly degrading me, and perverting my current views of reality. Of course, this may be difficult to understand, providing that my daydreams seem such a wonderful place to be. And they are. But they are getting me into trouble. Mischief is around every corner. I can hardly stop myself from imagining that perfect boy, and what he is doing, and how in love he is with me. Upon jumping out of my daydream, however, I may (I Do) believe that he is still the perfect boy. But he isn't. He's hardly the man I imagined and more of the boy that all non-daydreamers and normal people know him by. He makes mistakes, and, frankly, he isn't in love with me.
My home in my head is also irresistibly attractive and appealing compared to my physics, calculus, and history classes. Anybody would rather be in New York exploring the subway and riding bicycles between taxis than in a cold classroom learning about momentum. And dancing under the stars, eating marshmallows, and eating cake around a campfire can all seem colorful in comparison to a dull math classroom. And history? History comes alive when I'm in there. (as you can imagine, I do much better in that class). Either way, this is becoming a dangerous hobby.
I may also be daydreaming this very moment that people (someone, anyone) could be reading my blog.
It's probably better that they don't because, in reality, after reading this, people might start to think I'm a crazy person. Or more of a crazy person than I already am.
What a foolish daydream.
