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The Loss of Dreams

When I was young… Every big stone I saw was a troll who had been out in the sun, every tree was an ent. I used to caress the trees softly, talk to them. I thanked them when going down a steep slope, thanked them for being there to support me if my foot slipped. I’d ask their forgivness if I thought I’d accidentally hurt them.

I imagined seeing elfs and fairies in the corner of my eye. I remember chatting at length with others about what was real and what was not and if one really could count fairies as “not real” just because there was no sure proof of their existance – as I saw it, there was no sure proof they did not excist, so everything was possible.

I remember loving poetry. I’d read at home my favorite poems, sometimes searching for new ones. I’d read them aloud to my self and even using my body to theatrically express the poems. I did the same with songs. When no one was there to see me I would dance and my dance was a performance.

I’d tell myself the most fantastic stories and live them out in theater in my home – again with no one watching. I’d work for hours on dialogues, sometimes days even weeks or months. I had these stories that I repeted and worked on. I’d perfect the scenes and the different persons personality and what they said and what they did and why. I made the story bigger and more and more happened, but I also went back and changed parts that didn’t fit. Sometimes I’d go through the same scene from different angles and different dialogue. I loved my stories.

I remember my first girlfriend. We would sit on the sofa and I’d tell her the most fantastic stories. Stories about aliens and other creatures. I’d make her laugh.

I did not have a lot of friends back then, and the ones I had often lived in a different city than I did. But I did have Dreams. I didn’t do the “face my feelings”-thing though. I locked the feeling up inside me, and smile.

In 2006 everything changed.

I started facing my feelings, and they were bad. I didn’t take it well. I was 25 years at that time, and a lot of different feelings were locked up inside me. Now they came all out, overwhelming me.

I did not know what to do.

Now. January 2012.

I do not read poetry out loud anymore. Nore do I think the big stones are trolls, and I haven’t had a discussion of the reality of things for years. Even when I sleep, my dreams have become dull. I can’t concentrate enough to tell myself any stories. When I write, I have difficulties finding the words. The stories I have managed to write, are short ones. I do not feel inspired anymore.

My Love says that maybe I don’t tell myself stories anymore, cause I have no reason to want to run away to an imaginary world.

I have Her now, My Love. And I have friends. I talk about my feelings and do not just lock them up. I live more in the world now than then.

But. I miss my stories.

I wouldn’t change anything, if the prize was My Love. She is the only one worthy the sacrifice. Everything else I would change.

I miss my stories. I miss my imagination.

I want to write again, to imagine, to be filled with passion.

I do not know the reason. Why did my dreams die? Is it because I am more connected to the world, or is it the Happy-pills the doctors feed me, that makes me feel like a robot at times?

Tomorrow I have an appointment with my doctor. I’ll try to remember talking to her about feeling this way.


3 responses to “The Loss of Dreams

  1. I was looking through new posts and this caught my attention. I have learned myself that the more I get involved (illuminated) about what’s going on in this world (all aspects) the more depressed I become. I am not on any medication. It’s very rough out there. Multinational corporations have made it that way in the name of greed/profit.

    Okay, I’ve ranted – yes. Now on to your suppressed creativity.
    IMHO the happy pills may be partly to blame. They give you those for your emotions. Emotions are a part of you, you have empathy. And IMHO empathy is the highest emotion a human being can practice. Empathy is the dirty word to anyone whom feels they must look reality in the face (that means recognizing the suffering going on in the world) they prefer to hide in a world of – want, buy, discard, repeat process. That material world, where humans that are suffering, strangers, on the other side of the world are ignored purposely, so we, living in this world of consumerism can pretend they don’t exist, and everything is just fine.

    Did that turn into a rant again? I’m sorry.

    Okay, so here is my idea for you. Your are feeling something very deeply, maybe an emptiness caused by the doctor’s pills or by this world we live in – my guess is both.

    That is what your main character must reveal to us (the readers) Take us on that journey however horribly painful it is. Writing truth within a fictional world is actually a very highly regarded art form.

    A girl, alone in a hostile world that wants to keep her quiet by drugging her, but somehow, she manages to breakdown their walls of drugs to reveal the inner truth to the world.

    Sorry for my raving, I get that way when I feel someone is being repressed.


    • crAzyKiTz

      Than you jp for your comment, I appreciate your thoughts and ideas vety much! I have started to write again, it is harder than it was when I was younger, but I persist and I have a little bit text – just as you suggest, I write fiction with a twist of truth in the mix. I still miss some of my inspired, improvised theatrics at home, but somehow I will keep trying, and keep writing, which is the most important form of creativity to me.

      Thank you again, your comment was warmly appreciated!

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