![]() What happened to me almost eight years to now, I thought it was impossible, as I believed t that the fabrics of my imagination were my own and no one else's. Storytellers appeared within the men, first with speech and then by writing those stories that were born out of our imagination and thus they travelled to the four corners of the earth.Įach story, its own fabric of lives of peoples born out of our imagination. To colour this fabric of words with emotion to pass it on to future generations and that re-telling of the fabric of words created other individual fabrics, of thousand different colours and weaves and shapes and that's how fairytales and myths and legends were born. I know that people differ from animals in other ways too, but for me as a writer, the ability to speak and imagine are particularly fascinating.īoth highly correlated by speech we were able to weave our imagination into words. The ability to speak and the ability to imagine. The hole it punched in my mind however, and to be more precise on my imagination, it was so profound, that the woman that was me on that instance, she is still there, breathless and immobile, like a wax statue in a museum.Īlways thought that we humans differ from the animal kingdom in two very basic things. The small bits of baggage we all carry, they are some people's doing and some people's undoing, depending on how they handle them.īut there are also some things that just happen, without explanation, they bring you dead on your tracks, and at that moment in time, you know that you cannot go forwards nor backwards.Īnd I happened to have a moment like this, a moment so totally unexplainable, I still try to understand whether it was real or not. Or something entirely different, something no one knows, and I never told?īecause every one of us have their secrets. The friendship I believed in and had broken in front of my eyes in the worst of ways. The thought that I was doubted for my creation. Could it be the years of constant legal battles. I had thought about this and pondered long and hard enough on the reasons. and if that doesn't make things difficult for a writer I don't know what is. ![]() And let me tell you, it was frightening at times, while on others it was frustrating because it meant that I couldn't concentrate for a long time to one thing. I did not want to admit it to myself, but my mind had started drifting off things. ![]() To be honest to myself and to you, I felt slightly different since my 50th birthday. Right now, a whole hour had passed and nothing was coming out. It was always frustrating for me as a writer to have a blank in my mind. I asked myself and put my reading glasses back on. I sat down and stared at the keys of the keyboard took a sip from my jasmine tea and exhaled. ![]() Once bearing an old typewriter on its surface, now it was installed with the latest minimal flat screen of a computer. My modest, small white lacquered Louis XIV writing desk, which was a present to myself after my previous successes. The bookcase opposite my desk was heaving under the weight of the books overflowing on the shelves, filling its every nook and cranny. I turned my head back inside and my stare travelled around my small study. One could swear that silvery golden sparkles were floating in the air, where the rays of the sun were hitting the bright green grass as it swayed under the sky.Īfter all those years.of havoc.of distress.Īfter all those years, I started writing again. From the open window, my eyes were resting on the green meadows that rolled to the distance. ![]()
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