Daydreaming And Confused

You know what’s a weird feeling? Thinking about one event for so long that you’re no longer sure if it ever actually happened, or if it was just a dream.

Like I have this one picture in my head of being at this random place from when I was little girl. It seemed like I was at a baby shower or a bridal shower, but I’m not sure which. There were kids of all ages running around the place, and everyone was either in white or pastels.

In this place, I was with my godmother, my Aunt Roxanne, and possibly Oma, as well. I just remember being surrounded by light and white and glass doors and windows—and when you looked out from those windows, there was just a perfect blue sky, and the greenest grass I’d ever seen in my life, and a body of water, not too far away. Everything seemed to be picture perfect there.

I wish I knew whether it was real or not. I feel like if I asked Aunt Roxanne about it, I wouldn’t get anything out of it. If it never happened, and it was a dream, she’d think I’m crazy; but if it did happen, and that place is real, I think she’d have no recollection of what I’m talking about.

Plus, there’s nothing distinct about the place that I remember that could possibly distinguish where we were exactly. It was just…white. White and pristine and picturesque.

But that’s all there was to it. I just remember the walk from the gravel parking lot to the huge front door, the walk through the foyer, the one room off to the right, and looking out to the grass and water.

The people present in this vision were only women and children, and that’s why I always thought we were at some kind of bridal or baby shower. But I just remember those specific things—nothing else. No conversations, no art pieces, nothing that could determine how real or imaginary that place was.

It’s so frustrating how I have this picture in my head that revisits me every once in a while, because I have no idea whether or not it was even real. I don’t know if I dreamt it when I was younger, or imagined it completely.

I don’t want to talk myself up, but I was a super creative kid; I would imagine different worlds and people and conversations. I would draw and write and come up with all these different scenarios of how my life would evolve. I’d sketch blue prints and dresses and handbags and shoes. I’d talk to imaginary friends. I’d write about how I’d meet my future husband, and how I’d tell my parents when I ever get pregnant, and how I’d raise my kids, where I’d travel to, and all the different kind of careers I wanted to pursue.

I was possibly insane.

So I hate it when I have these…visions, of sorts; when I get these pictures in my head of these places, and the people there, and what happens there. I can’t tell the difference between what is fiction and what isn’t—unless something completely ridiculous happens. That’s the only way I can decipher what’s real from what isn’t.

And because I was such a creative kid, I don’t know if some things are actually real, and I just imagined random things happening in the midst of it all.

So it’s possible that that place that seemed so perfect was real, but I could have imagined the water out of nothing, or pictured the grass being greener than it actually was.

I hate that I can’t tell the difference; I wish that I could.

I guess that’s just what happens when you’ve got a mind that runs on creativity and justifying desires.

Prompt: Write about a place that seems perfect to you—real or not.

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A twenty-two year old who lives through words and her Netflix account. She makes herself laugh more than others, and she claims that she is okay with that.

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