I am a dreamer; I always have been. When I was a kid and most of the children on my block were outside playing road hockey, or riding their bikes down the street, I was sitting in my room writing a story about a place I hadn’t been to yet; a place inside my imagination. In the summertime, rather than spending my days at the river playing games with my brothers and my friends, I was sitting under the oak tree in my front yard reading a book; imagining I was the heroine and it was up to me to save the universe.
While in life I was a very practical child, inside my head I was not. When I looked out my bedroom window at night, waiting to fall asleep, I didn’t see the sleepy houses with their quiet windows. I didn’t see the dusky glow of the street under the dim lamp light, and I didn’t hear the crickets in the forest behind my house. I saw the lights of Broadway, shining bright and beckoning for me to go out and join them. I saw the city lights of London and Hollywood; I saw the adventures that they carried- the adventures that lay in wait for me. I saw the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh; not the smooth concrete streets of my little cul-de-sac. I saw the Eiffel Tower lit up; sparkling like a beacon. I heard music of a life I hadn’t yet experienced; and yet I could of sung every word. I heard the clink of wine glasses and the laughter of people just like me.
I always loved my small town and the people that lived there; people who were happy to merely exist, but not truly live. It was always safe; it was always a comfort. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t want to exist; I wanted to create. I wanted to love, and I wanted to experience. I wanted to learn, and I wanted to fail and fall before I could learn to stand on my own. I wanted it all. I wanted to dream.
I still do.
That little dreamer grew up, but she never forgot how to dream. She never forgot how to lust after new and fresh experiences, and she never lost her taste for passion and the true love of an enticing journey. She never forgot.
I’ll never forget.