Daydream

I used to get on the bus at 6:45 a.m. every day in seventh grade, listening to music on my iPod Touch, my latest birthday gift, and staring wistfully out the window. Every bleak, early dawn, watch the trees and houses fly by. I distinctly recall the day when the girl on the seat in front of me turned around to chat, excitedly and cheerfully. I snapped because she was cheerful, pleasant, and cracking jokes.

"Please be quiet!" ”

She seemed surprised and apologized.

My head shook. "Please accept my apologies. I'm simply exhausted. And I'm not in the mood to discuss. "Perhaps when we get to school."

I took in the weight of the encounter, guilty and relieved, as she slumped back into her seat, defeated, as I accepted that it was based on a complete fabrication.

She'd just interrupted my daydream, so I wasn't tired.

The protagonist is the child in the classroom in the movies who is staring out the window thinking of something other than Algebra or History. The one who, despite her fantasies of moving higher, remains stuck in reality. And my middle school fantasies were inspired by this imaginary character's: bright, forceful, and immensely seductive. All I wanted to do was figure out who I was and bring my creativity out into the world in whatever way possible. I performed instruments, composed songs, and delivered jokes, all with the mediocrity of a 12-year-old. I would retreat inside my headphones and start listening when my averageness got engulfing and stifling.

Every music on an iPod Touch's playlists was associated with a distinct daydream. I used to envision myself singing along with perfect tune to the music. Other times, I was dancing to deafening applause with perfect rhythm. Most of the time, however, it played out in my head like a music video, with a beginning, middle, and conclusion. And interrupting it before the story was over made me feel so uncomfortable that I couldn't stand it.

I still listen to music the same way I did in middle school, with each song having its own plot, characters, and story structure. Despite how often I fantasize today, whether on the subway or when walking home from the grocery store, I rarely talk about it. As a result, I've only known a few people in my life that share my musical tastes, the most notable of whom being my younger brother. Perhaps it's because it's only one small piece of me that I want to retain inside my thoughts for my own amusement. But that's probably because I find it painfully egocentric to imagine myself as the protagonist of a novel that only lives in my imagination.

My brain has an extraordinary ability to morph these half-baked musical reactions into actual stories, with depth, emotion, and intensity, despite the fact that I'm only a half-decent vocalist at best and couldn't dance to save my life. Each song's story is so unique that, depending on my mood, I'll skip to various ones and play out the daydream associated with it. If I were in a superhero movie, "September" by Earth, Wind, and Fire would be my character introduction. The headline show for my band that doesn't exist is Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain." The most shocking example was when, while listening to "Blackbird" on the bus junior year of college, a stranger asked if I was okay when I started crying on the bus, visualizing myself singing and playing the song on guitar during my mother's burial. All of this is in spite of the fact that:

1). My mother is in excellent health.

2). I despise being the focus of attention.

3). I've never touched a guitar in my life.

I wish I could explain why this is happening. Maybe it's because of my intense love of movies and books and the stories that go with them, a passion so strong that my brain seeks to tie it to the comparatively plot-free medium of music. Maybe it's my impostor syndrome, which seeps into my subconscious mind and satisfies me with fictitious accomplishment because I know I'll never amount to anything in the actual world. Maybe it's my addiction to social media and celebrity culture, which has instilled in me the belief that if you're not famous, you're not worth living since those days on the middle school bus.

The truth is that I'm not capable of working through my adult daydreams on my own. They are the most childish aspect of myself, imprisoned in a mental vice, a horrible secret I don't know why I'm maintaining. As I become older and continue to mature, I want to learn more about this aspect of myself. But the trick will be to shut myself in a room, close my eyes, listen to loud music, and watch what daydreams emerge. Only then will I be able to see how far my imagination can stretch.