Youth, an ode
Our youth, well, it was a time brimming with immeasurable beauty and constant brooding. One where the girls wore cotton candy hues, and so did the boys. We spent our days in a garden back then, lounging in our dresses on velvet sofas or resting on the pink walls next to rose bushes, longing for the one who never shows interest in us. It was a time we unabashedly daydreamed of arguments that trigger the longing, of the perfectly imperfect moment of that first kiss, and the death of the loved one which would create a love untainted by the mundane of the world.
We would meet in the garden on any given week day, not heeding to spatial time but rather mellowing in the absorbing state of our youth. Sheer fabric for our dresses and the boys with their unmade hair, you would find us laughing one minute, sulking the next. We thrived on the pang of our self-imposed angst — on unrequited love, our insecurity and our boredom — and we were sure the world we knew would never change.
We had beauty and youth and we knew this; we were empowered by the conviction that we were in an immortal state. We felt the eeriness of what was to come and we mused on our childhood but we always chose to wallow in our daydreams. We were immersed in our own contradictions — we were in love with our life and we hated it too. We wanted everything, but then, we would prefer if our daydreams remained just that, so that we would never be disenchanted by the world.
Story credit: Burberry.