I DREAMT I SAW YOU IN A DREAM

In the delicate tapestry of my existence, a peculiar chapter unfolds. Tousled tresses framed my face, a perpetual homage to the elusive "tumblr" aesthetic. I danced with the folly of youth, flirting with schoolboys, a mortification in itself, yet my allure often ensnared the gaze of older men. The year was 2014, and app filters adorned my photographs like personal insignias. Academic excellence graced my report cards, save for the enigmatic realm of mathematics, an insurmountable enigma that haunted me.

Post-class, I sought solace in my grandmother's abode, proximate to my own, where I'd lose myself in the luminous glow of my phone, the strains of Grizzly Bear caressing my ears, while sharing laughter and stories with her in the soft embrace of television's glow.

The city, where I'd nestled for five or six fleeting years, beckoned me frequently. In pursuit of sartorial choices some might deem abhorrent, but to me, they were the very tapestry of my individuality. An ice cream in hand always accompanied these urban escapades.

Loathed Saturdays unfurled as a thorn in the delicate fabric of my weekly calendar, the catechesis, an unwelcome chore. Then came the precipice, the plunge occasioned by a boy who, in my eyes, embodied the very spirit of Alex Turner.

Once, I yearned for garments far too oversized, a rebellion embroidered into my very skin. My fourteenth birthday bears witness to an indelible memory—a bus's fall etched upon my soul. Therein lay the audacity to view "The Nun" within the three-dimensional embrace of theaters.

My life unfolded in the exploration of nameless avenues and the whimsical squandering of my earnings on schoolyard feasts. My spirits soared, despite the paucity of companions. I attempted to cradle an injured bird found abandoned on the streets, but alas, it could not endure. My journals, a cacophony of teenage angst, threatened to suffocate me, with love letters to the wrong boys penned in desperation. I quested for self in the most wayward corners of existence.

The quintessential teenage reverie—parties that remained elusive, friendships tinged with betrayal, perennial melancholy serenading me, and the dulcet strains of Declan McKenna echoing in my ears. I dreamt of my city every waking hour, promising myself a return to happiness. It was a sweet and divine reverie, wherein I cast myself as the flawed heroine, striving for an allure that beckoned devotion.

My yearning to be someone, an unceasing quest for identity, like gathering fragments of a shattered mirror in hopes of reassembling a once-neglected reflection. All I possessed was an open heart and a pair of black All Stars, traversing these experiences without a defined purpose. Perhaps, the very pursuit was the purpose I was fated to follow, a purpose I shall forever hold dear.