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daydream believer (standard:drama, 2091 words)
Author: Sara BaughAdded: Apr 22 2001Views/Reads: 2998/2058Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
About your typical jaded teenager and her, verging on the worrying, obsession in the beauty of her dreams.

Daydream Believer. 

ĎThe future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreamsí 

I roll head over ass through an eternal space of sparkling fairy light,
I escape, I fly, mystified yet content, riding a wave so free of 
consciousness, so free from reality, I stumble. Who's that? Standing, 
statuesque and arrogant in my still perfect daydream. I want, I 
remember. Time stops. 

I don't know where it is I flee to or how I get there but you'd like it,
well; you would if you were me. If you were this jaded, this ordinary, 
this much of a teenager. I don't go often, only when the real world 
fails me. It fails us all but my failures are magnified through the 
faultlessness of those around me. Something lacks in my world. Haven't 
put my finger on what yet. But I will. 

I sit and watch the colourless old man who walks with his sweetheart
past the suburban driveway of my ordinary home, daily, like a well 
oiled machine. I realise his oil is love. He leads a slick life. 
Jealousy over takes me and replenishes the stabbing feeling in the pit 
of my stomach. Suddenly I realise, I'm jealous of a crusty old man, a 
man wearing a flat cap and slacks, a granddad! Gross!  What has puberty 
turned me into? A ravenous green-eyed monster, a mess, an amoeba, a 
crooked piece in this puzzle of a world!  Me. 

I retreat from my window ledge, light a lavender scented candle and sink
deep into the comfort of my lilac pillows longing to return to my own 
private universe. The land where he exists, the land where I am right 
and you are wrong, the place where paranoia doesn't fester and 
confusion doesn't bud. Home. This land rejects my desire to enter, not 
yet. Instead I sleep and try to lose myself in the splendor of my 

I wake to the annoying buzz of my alarm clock. A manic Monday morning
greets me as cheesy 80's rock music plays on my adolescent mind amusing 
the small parts of my brain, which appreciate irony. School, a chore, a 
hell, the launch pad for a future I must earn. I feel any future 
possesses little more certainty than the anguish of my present state. I 
feel numb. 

I select some awfully fashionable ensemble from my heaving wardrobe-
dress and then reject my uncomfortable appearance in the mirror. I 
rummage clumsily through the festering 'carpet' of my bedroom floor for 
my wide legged khaki combats and favorite baggy jumper, pull on a pair 
of tattered size five trainers and smirk bashfully at my awkward 
reflection in the mirror, same as ever. The mirror doesnít try any 
more, so why should I? 

Period one, history, insightful? I think not. The tutorís drone-like
murmur soothes me to a different place from this shabby post-modern 

His silhouette calls me. I still donít know his name, I donít know
anything, I long to reach out and touch him but this place offers no 
contact. It allows me to observe at a safe distance, at arms reach, no 
chance of a side-ways glance or catty remark. My asylum. I drift 
through the shimmering air pursuing his path to nothing. I close my 
eyes and imagine what could be. I tell time to stop once more until my 
rapture is nuked with the bell to signify something has to change. For 
a moment I canít remember what. 

A free period, cool. So much to do and so little motivation, no change
there. I indulge in the vacant conversations which make sixth-form life 
what it is and secretly crave a hit of my daydreams. I observe the 
ape-like performance of my peers and wish theyíd learn.  I feel like a 
freak, but a freak with a salvation. If only I could stay there 
eternally. Make my world certain. 

The day continues as every other. More lessons more work more boredom
and more longing. He wonít listen. As I finally escape the severe gates 
that border the front of the school I remember the day and the fact 
that I have to be at work in less than two hours. Shit, why me? 

It seems society pigeonholes the waitress with the dregs of society-

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