Daydreaming Essay Personal

A/N: This is one of my many "attempts for a good grade". An English essay on how we were supposed to choose a time we had a daydream in class, a strong, resolute memory, or a thought on just about anything. Pretty clever title, don't you think? This was written to impress a teacher and amuse a student. Enjoy.


I Think I'll Daydream a Memory

Thank the shoelaces on my shoe. She's droning on again! About absolutely nothing! Sometimes I think about how lucky I am to have such an off-topic teacher.

I yawned and leaned back, tilting the chair so that it rested on its two back legs. It was incredibly tempting to rest my feet onto the table and just lay back, relaxed and lazily teetering back and forth on the hind legs of the chair for the rest of the period. But of course, known to all girl or boy who attended this heavenly sanctuary, that was most likely going to cost me a detention, referral, a trip to the office, or all of the above. So, perplexed that I was unable to do anything I favored to in this class, I contented my self with the fact that we were not learning anything at the moment. Instead, we were able to either listen to the teacher ramble on about something completely off-topic (again), or sit back and enjoy our few minutes (half of an hour) of freedom to think of whatever we wished.

Yes… thinking was indeed one of the few things in our life we were not limited to. And best part was that no one got to know what we thought about! Unless, of course, we so smartly decided to tell all the adults what was really going through our minds while they continued to lecture us on unneeded knowledge in our life.

As was dreaming. There was the I-dream-to-become-a-rock-star kind of dream, and the I-had-a-funny-dream-last-night dream. People tend to do more of the latter than the former, especially during class. It's what we call today "daydreaming", or, "happily wasting our time".

Another thing that we all should always hold dear to ourselves is our memories. I can't say that this is cheesy, because it is very much true. Memories are not something you can spend, use, give, or take. Memories are something you must cherish, treasure, reminisce, and make.

When I think, I think of fiction. Fictional characters that are mine to control, mine to shape, mine to keep, and mine to grant with whatever troublesome characteristic or annoyingly impossible situation I can find for them.

When I dream, I dream of those personalities and characteristics in action, about what things made them who they are to exist in my head. The only problem is that I can never fit these onto a piece of paper. I curse my laziness.

And when I show a memory, it will come from the most simple yet most important details in my life. Memories are not things to sell, gain, give, or take. Memories are things to cherish, treasure, reminisce, and make. It could be anything, a happy time, an embarrassing moment, or simply something mildly drastic that builds up who a person is and will be. As corny as it sounds, I say it because I mean it. Without any experience or a meeting with a certain someone could change my perspective on so many things that happen in my daily life.

And that is exactly what I did that day. Well, not that day. Any day. Any day the teacher decided to disrupt our "needed" education (heaven forbid), my mind would drift off, along with my many distracting characters in tow. I thought about their personalities, dreamed about what they looked like, and suddenly many fond (and many not) memories flooded me. It was then that I remembered my own characters had memories of their own that so very conveniently consisted of mine, making them what they are to me today.

I then abruptly yanked myself back into reality, realizing that I was just about to go off to Ria-land. It's dubbed that because it started with her, and will end with her. My first fictional character, the main character of my fifth grade stories. I shrugged my worries off of my shoulders when I realized we still had twenty-five minutes left in class. I could slip off to my own little world if I wanted to. Just for a little bit.


I stared up at the ceiling that was so foreign to me, covered with plastic glow-in-the-dark stars and little models of planets. Frowning, I finally turned my gaze over to my friend, my play buddy, playing pretend with her plastic zebras and giraffes. Neither of us knew it, but astronomy was soon to be Cameron's favorite subject in the future. I watched as she made both plastic species jump up and down in an enthusiastic way that giraffes would probably never do in real life.

Quelling down the urge to ask why the zebra had sparkly blue nail polish on, I asked what I had wondered earlier: "Why d'you have weird colored stars stuck to your ceiling?" I really did wonder. They were rather fascinating, though I wanted to know why she couldn't just look at the stars that were out at night.

As an immediate reaction, Cameron looked up as if she had just realized I existed. Had I been old enough to know what sarcasm was, I would've been thinking "thanks" rather sarcastically at that moment. But I wasn't, and I didn't. Cameron made an interesting face and shrugged, continuing to bounce her toys up and down randomly around each other. "I d'nno. My mom gave them to me and I thought they were pretty."

I nodded at her story, suddenly very disinterested. Why did I ask in the first place? "Cameron, do you wanna do somethin' fun?" I asked yet another question. I remember the startled look she gave me. I almost shrugged in response, but waited for an answer.

It was her turn to frown. "This isn't… fun?" she asked, as if trying very hard to decide whether or not something "fun" was worth letting go of her precious animals.

I started to nod, but then stopped after a moment of thought. "It's fun for you, maybe," I said slowly, sitting up on the edge of the bed. Cameron stood up as I motioned for her to sit beside me, reluctantly letting go of her soon-to-be-discarded toys. She cautiously plopped down beside me, a look of curiosity stealing her features. "Let's talk," I suggested, remembering what my mom used to always say to her many friends.

Cameron did not understand. "But we are," she explained confusedly, bouncing up and down on her bed anxiously. She seemed to like the motions of going up and down. She also seemed rather jumpy.

"Let's talk about ourselves," I continued, as if she had not just stated the obvious. "Like, what food do you like?" I quickly asked, afraid something else silly would spill out of her mouth. It closed again after I asked, her eyes momentarily fixated on a tiny spot in the carpet that I couldn't see, very seriously searching for an answer to my question. If I had been older and more mature, I would've laughed out loud at the huge deal my friend was making it to be. But I wasn't, so I didn't. I sat patiently, waiting for her answer yet again.

"Oh, I don't know," she finally said, slightly exasperated. "What about you?"

"Cottage cheese," was my immediate reply. I grinned excitedly. "The best food ever!" It was part of what I had for lunch that day.

"Um, I like cottage cheese, too," she said hurriedly, trying not to be left out. But there wasn't anything to be left out of.

"Well, I guess we both like something," I exclaimed happily, and as we continued to talk that day, I learned that her favorite color was yellow and that clowns scared her.

Later that day I stayed over for dinner and we had cottage cheese for dessert.

She took a bite of it and said she was full.


Ria portrays me as how I was when I was probably six or seven. I liked to be slightly more talkative when with my friend. Otherwise I was Cameron, whom was painfully shy around others she didn't know. Ria is me when she tries to take over the situation and make a solution. But sometimes I am Cameron, who likes to use the nail polish I was given to as a gift on other objects, such as the toys I play with.

The bell rang. I blinked out of my reverie and tried to stand up before I realized that my previous position had been teetering on the end legs of my seat, nearly causing me to fall over. A friend laughs at me as I fall forward instead, and she picks up the book I dropped onto the floor. When I take back my possession in a jokingly possessive say and hit her lightly on the head for laughing at me, she growls fiercely up at me, baring her teeth. Not literally, of course. She is my role model of Vanessa, the one who laughs at the others' antics and gets angry very easily.

I think I'm done for today. My daydreaming is over.

And my memory remains intact.

Personal Narrative- Daydreaming in Class Essay

871 Words4 Pages

Personal Narrative- Daydreaming

There I sat, trying desperately not to drool in the middle of my daydream. Dare I say class was less than interesting and all I could think of was my bed? Instead of daydreaming of a hunky man, or even a bright future paved with a golden road of success, I was dreaming of my bed. It was an ordinary college dorm room bed: you never know how many people actually slept in it, or did something else in it, yet I still find comfort in its lumps and bumps. In the brilliance of my afternoon laziness I decided that daydreaming about my bed wasn’t silly at all. In fact I should commemorate my bed with a poem and a little cartoon drawing of it. Unfortunately I had forgotten my notebook so I began to doodle on the…show more content…

What a brave artist! In my fascination with the brilliant prose scribbled on my desk I completely forgot about commemorating my bed. My mattress no longer seemed worthy of my precious day dreaming time. Instead I must dedicate the rest of the class period to deciphering these brilliant etchings.

Discreetly tilting my desk so that I could look at the poem of interest at a better angle I suddenly catch the eye of my professor. My professor is a man who is fascinated with hearing himself talk. Therefore, I’m usually guaranteed a good hour of daydreaming and composing poetry. But today he seemed to actually notice that there were other people in the room, other than himself. Just my luck, the day I am truly inspired by something I see in class and my professor feels the need to step off his soapbox and actually notice. The professor’s darting eyes began to focus on the heads that seem to be bobbing up and down in a chorus of sleepy daydreaming. He looked at me as I continued to balance my desk in that perfect angle. Instead of saying anything, he merely nodded his head as if he knew exactly what I was plotting in my head, and continued walking around the room. Now what should I do? Should I continue my attempt at deciphering the scribbles on the desk or should I actually attempt to listen to what the professor was saying?

While pondering over these questions I found my eyes gazing at the desk again. It was as if what was written on this desk was meant only for me. And,

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