She had a dream to flee to Montevideo.One day, while washing the dishes,her reflection got caught inside a porcelain cup. She would not take more than one glimpse before drowning it in dirty foam.
She had a dream to sleep under bridges and wear her jeans until they fade to nothingness...not much to dream about, just a different kind of obscurity to long for.She wanted a past she could grow out of as to embrace the comings and goings of old age.She felt undone- after all instead of going to Montevideo she had danced the night away, then changed into her work clothes and went on with her life.
The moment one regrets how one wasted its youth-that is when there is too little left to change. Dreaming of South America, she carried on and on.
She was never happy. A story needs to have a real beginning in order not to crumble under its own web of lies.
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