Dreamer

I am, and always will be, a dreamer. I dream of perfect circumstances in which my every desire, no matter how far-fetched, flighty or romantic comes true. I dream of twilit mountains and boys with curly hair and love in their eyes. I dream of sprawling, sensuous summer fields and myself being the muse to the boy playing me music there. I dream, I dream, I dream. And hardly ever do.
I cannot regret the direction this dreaminess has taken me—I have the most fertile of imaginations, I can imagine nearly any situation perfectly. My mind is ever swimming with beauty, with bliss. Often, my life does the same.
The problem lies in the pattern. I often fail to act in accordance with my dreams. I dream perfection and do not expect it of my life, or I dream perfection and expect life to follow through exactly. I know this is not how life works—I daresay if it did, I would become bored with it. Maybe, maybe not. The fact that life takes such wonderful unexpected turns is what makes me so enamored of it. I am in love with the spontaneous, the unexpected. So why do I grow so disenchanted when things don’t work out like they do in my head?
I have an ideal for nearly any situation. Sometimes life proves to be better than this ideal, and sometimes worse. That anticipation makes life exciting, delicious. Not knowing what’s going to happen excites me and has not made me scared in years.
I will always have dreams. I have to try to not have expectations.