Dreams settle most, if not all, of my problems (the unsettled problems being the ones I never seem to dream about [resolution part four: master lucid dreaming!]). Take, for example, my sudden and resolute fascination with Twilight and Robert Pattinson. Like all of my previous teen-girl crushes, I’ve become incredibly drawn to this male celebrity with whom I will - for all intents and purposes - never meet, never befriend, never find myself at the receiving end of deep-seated admiration and respect; so why, then, do I continue to subject myself to my own crazy and ludicrous fantasies? I’ve never really found an answer to that burning question that never fails to burst forth at yet another sign that I have certainly taken my crush too far. When does that moment occur: when I spend hours, days, weeks obsessing over galleries trying to amass the most coy and seductive picture collection?; when I settle on a chance meeting, ultimate romance, or decision to seriously cement this improbable encounter in a novel?; or when I start interjecting said person into everyday conversation, using a more familiar shortened nickname to dictate our now phantom relationship? The only thing I know for sure is that this period of romantic hysteria is waning. I can no longer engage my senses for two years of devotion (N SYNC), three months (Brendon Urie), one month (Joe Jonas), or even one week (Robert Pattinson) - which is where my dreams come in.
I’ve been trying to seriously (and privately) journal for the last four months, using the mere act of forming letters and words on paper as mental therapy. It’s an understatement to say I’ve been unhappy with the lack of aggression I’ve showed in the decision-making process that is “My Life,” and journaling is a safe place to hash out and self-debate about what goes wrong, whether I know why I’m committing a fault, and how I can better respond should a similar event happen in the future. I’ve never really gotten to that last part - something my therapist has both plainly and obviously pointed out to me - choosing, instead, to escape to these elaborate fantasies I construct out of someone’s face, voice, musical abilities, wardrobe, accent, height, bone structure, hair style, lip pout…. It’s absurd that I place so much comfort in something as fleeting and ultimately disappointing as my desire for these dreams to come true, but I know that I’m being absurd when I continually engage in their presence. Something I’ve been struggling with for the past week, however, is how much I both want and don’t want a relationship with someone I could actually enter into a relationship with. As much as I say I like this boy, I always pick faults - and with the entrance of Robert Pattinson - omitted him completely from potential prospects. It was only because of a dream I had last night (this boy and I hugged before he suddenly drew back, remarked how pretty I was, and then kissed me) that I went into Twilight this morning with renewed confidence that I hadn’t lost myself completely to my celebrity fantasy. Sitting in a movie theater and realizing that I’m not any different from the other movie patrons who had also paid $6 to see his ten foot face was terrifically liberating.
Maybe I will always go through celebrity-land this way: bounding along until I’m struck in some way by some sort of beauty, and then becoming quite in love with that beauty until a new favorite comes along. (Food for thought: I have always forced myself to like someone because it’s weird and uncomfortable to not have a crush.) I almost like feeling so out-of-control of my emotional response to someone’s physicalities because it feels nice to be so content with so little prompting. Joe Jonas’ straight-curly-sex-hair-mess? Brendon Urie’s half-orgasmic smirk? Robert Pattinson’s seductive drawl and all-around bashfulness? James McAvoy’s scottish cadence? A smile plasters itself to my face and I’m trying to completely slide out of my chair and lie quite happily all over the floor, squealing in fits of insane joy. But I also like relishing in the tangible: the events I can plan around, the skin I can touch, the smile I can force out of hiding. It’s a tough line to balance on; so easily am I swayed into the Byronic hero of literature, the flawless actor with my favorite accent, the eternally young musician with that velvety voice… only to realize someone real can make my smile stick, tie my stomach into knots, give my heart those sweet and sought-after palpitations. This person who suddenly makes me jealous of other women appear to be all my wildest fantasies rolled into one mass that I can call up and logically explain. They are entirely attainable and surprise me with talents and attributes I never knew I wanted in a mate. But then I get nervous or embarrassed, never approach this individual with my intentions, and slip quietly back into my celebrity crush because it’s easier to love someone who could never, ever love me back than it is to love someone in a quiet stupor because I’ve never told them how I feel. So, every night I continue a made-up fantasy as I try to drip into a coveted REM cycle, and then wake up with a “What the fuck just happened?!” attitude towards a dream that either made no sense at all or completely escapes my memory. And that dream either solves an on-going dilemma or I simply have a fun story to tell all my friends.