I reached for my beloved Louis Vuitton yesterday, somewhat eager to pack my belongings. It would have been a most comical scene to an onlooker. You see it was stored dangerously out of my reach in the attic and my daring attempts to coo it down with a broomstick proved to be more arduous than anticipated. As it (finally) fell into my arms I felt an overwhelming wave of nostalgia wash over me.
This weekender and I, the places we’d seen and oh the adventures still awaiting us. I realised it had been well over six years since we last travelled together, which was to Paris of all places. I felt so heartbroken at that thought. All those plans I’d made and the ingenious ideas formed by that bright eyed girl whose heart was teaming with anticipation of great things ahead. A nineteen year old who was meticulously planning her brave move to Europe, hoping to undertake an internship with a cousin she’d never met before, a cousin who worked in her dream profession of interior design.
Oh the places I’d have seen and visited. The people I’d have met and had the pleasure of working with. And of course the dapper men I’d fall in love with. T’was to be a life lived to its fullest, a life of freedom and excitement, of passion and dreams becoming reality.
It’s sad to recall that young lady considering my life mirrors none of that today. So full of hope, real tangible hope with dreams and ambitions so easily within her reach.
But I still smile when I think back to her. That girl I visualised, dressed to the nines in glamorous Bvlgari sunglasses that covered half of her face. Her hair was always perfectly waved and an opulent blue Balenciaga swung promiscuously on her arm. That girl crossing a busy intersection, running perilously late to her next meeting with a well-known client, in a city dripping with gothic lavishness and charm and architecture from a time long passed. A landscape so dramatically different to that sunburnt land I grew up in.
That dream seems like ancient history today. But I remember it like it was only yesterday. And though my goals and dreams may have changed slightly I can’t help but yearn to be nineteen again. To go back in time and fulfil that dream. To go back and silence those critics who forced me to live a life they deemed worthy for myself. To go back and rid myself of those nay-sayers. I want to go back to being that girl so full of ambition and drive, where life was good and grand and anything and everything seemed effortlessly possible.