The Woeful Truth of the Shameless Dreamer
Updated: Jan 10
"The Woeful Truth of the Shameless Dreamer"
Initially, I allow myself to dream, to create, to make everything out of nothing. Only later do I discover the consequences of my reckless, inventive mind making you akin to the Statue of David.
I have spent many days thinking of you. In fact, your face has morphed into something you would no longer recognize as your own; I have combined its foundation with the handsome features I see on strangers hurrying by or on actors in movies I recently watched.
Your face, once quite boring, has turned into something far more magical. Your dirty blond hair, once described by Cosmopolitan as “same old, same old,” has turned into some suave new haircut that represents only the positives of simplicity. Your eyes, small, brown ones like my own, have come to resemble the cutest guy on my television screen; in fact, I think they might have turned blue.
Your mannerisms have changed too. Instead of staying true to the way you actually talked to or looked at me, I build your image with only the most admirable qualities. Walking around the romantic city of Paris, I take certain personalities from strangers and add them to my vision of you; I siphon Parisians’ auras in order to color your picture with even more liveliness, drawing out the locals’ exquisitenesses and individualities to corruptly foster your fabricated growth.
I also make a point to shield your image from harmful attributes: the heavy smoking of couples at cafés or the foul-mouths of tourists who pass by.
Likewise, when my first kiss contacts me via Snapchat to wish me a “Happy Birthday” with a mirror-selfie captioned “gym,” I make sure to add an extra dash of humility to your ever-changing self before I sleep.
Obsessed with my undertaking, I walk fast, an expression of my intense concentration. My mother, oblivious, believes my increase in speed to be an indication of excitement, visible evidence of my absolute infatuation with this wondrous city.
However, the sites here are not for me to enjoy at this moment; instead, I regard them as potential places you and I could go together. Who knew the dirty, squalid green water of the Seine could be so romantic?
I smile more often here, planning a future visit. In truth, I plan out the conversations we will have when I get back. I think of something clever to say and of a plausible witty and funny, yet still kind, reply from you. I build and build this dialogue, allowing room for laughs and smiles to make their appearances, until abruptly, it is the last day.
Now, to actually face you--for real.
Waiting inside a bathroom, I fix my hair, adjust my makeup, and give myself a pep-up talk about how, in 30 seconds, I am going to finally see again the love of my life.
Yet, when I meet with you, nothing goes as planned.
Your eyes have returned to brown, and your hair, though it has recently been cut, does not resemble the protagonist’s in The Painted Veil. Your personality bears no relation to the one of yours I conjured up in my head; rather, you seem annoyed, emotionally impermeable.
With your obvious indifference to my presence, my brain begins to boil, fury raging from my head and manifesting into physical expressions of petty impoliteness. Your reality is such a let down to the immaculate, utopian figure whom I had loved my whole Spring Break.
You’re not enough, and it’s not your fault at all. I brought these disappointments on myself.
Why couldn’t I just transfer you to my brain, you, your exact self, with impeccable, meticulous precision?