When I was 14 I started having a bizarre series of dreams that were not entirely in colour, more sepia stained (which is odd, because I always dream in full colour), about walking around the gardens surrounding the Eiffel Tower, during the Victorian era, I think.
I’d never seen the gardens in my life, and assumed they were fiction. I asked my parents if we could go there that year, just to see it, and they said yes.

So we go to Paris that August, and we walk around the gardens surrounding the Eiffel Tower and they’re exactly as I dreamt them to be. Every detail was perfect, other than of course the era.

I’ve never felt happier than when I was there, I felt like I was finally home, like that was where my heart was - hence my silly teenage writing. I couldn’t physically express how happy I felt, it was overwhelming - so much so that often I would cry.

You’ll all read this and think I’m ridiculous. But, I don’t mind.

It is, and always will be, my favourite place. Everything about it is beautiful to me. I haven’t been again, since. And that kills me inside.

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5. glitterherpes said: My mother has described something similar :) She is somewhat convinced she was English nobility in a past life. Not like crazy person convinced xP She’s just mentioned once or twice.
6. wednesdaysnecropolis said: Gosh, this reply almost made me cry! <3
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