"she's like a dream girl. And I think a dream girl should live in a dream world"

There are infinite versions of me out there, living a life that they're grateful of, maybe loathed, or desperate to get away from or perhaps they have become the version of themselves that they wanted to be.

There's the me who spent her mornings waking up to the view or Paris, having a smoke before skipping down to the bakery around the corner to pick up coffee and having a delightful breakfast to start off the day. She spends her nights walking along the Seine river, sitting down with a bottle of red wine as the artist could only get a sketch of her before she disappears into the night. On weekend, she explores every corner of the museum although she knows every painting like the back of her hand Oh lovely she'd be yet at times, loneliness pains her. Oh yes, in a city of love but no romance was found within her.

Then, there's the me who has her nose buried in a book every where she goes. Her hair hasn't been brushed in a few days and she keeps on pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, glasses which are way too big for her small face. Libraries became her safe haven, not only majoring in one course, oh no, her knowledge is limitless. Grades didn't matter, all she knows is the thirst for knowledge. Books after books lining up her room, the tower of books which became the place she sets her coffee and little plants. Forever the definition of bookworm.

There's me who lives in a studio apartment somewhere in New York, the room filled with countless of oil paintings on canvas, jars and jars of brushes and paint scattered all over the floor. You'd see her through the wide windows, dressed in overalls or a white over-sized shirt with splatters of paint on it dancing to the tune of Frank Sinatra's songs. Days spent painting and drawing, sometimes taking a walk in the city at night just to sketch or people watch. Such a bliss to be able to create masterpiece after masterpiece with just a stroke of brush. When asked what does she love about herself, she'll probably say her fingers, the ones who create such delicate art that mirrors her soul. A contender for Monet himself.

There's me who's a complete wallflower. She reads Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Jane Austen, perhaps a bit of Oscar Wilde and F. Scott Fitzgerald and in her spare time, she writes annotations to those pages, reviewing every little detail of their work in search of delving deeper into their world. Literature becomes her favorite subject but doesn't appear to be that way. Yes, a book in her hand yet dressed in earthy colors with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her style often mirrors the 80s and 90s, maybe. The little fierce wallflower that people can only see, not touch or get close to.

There's me who is here. The present me. Eyes tired, heart heavy and a mind filled with chaotic thoughts. Good grades were the goal, days filled with making notes and getting assignments done earlier than possible, trips to the library with bag heavy with snacks and books. Oh how draining her days are, fulfilling task by task and living a life that she's unhappy with. Mornings are quiet often, with a cup off coffee to keep her going, a planner by her side to make sure she gets things done on time and a book she forces herself to read in hopes it could fix her life. Although her bad habits have started to resurface again, she couldn't bring herself to stop smoking. More so, she finds new ways o cope with the pain. Loneliness accompany her most, the painful thoughts are silenced with pills again. Most of all, she screams at the stars to take her away.

But in the versions of myself that I had a glimpse of, I could only dream of to be in their places. I could only try to be them yet fail countless of times. But these versions of myself, I hope they're content no matter how many rough patches they went through, I hope they know how immensely blessed and loved they are.

To the infinite versions of me, I wish to be you.

yours truly,
sarah.