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.