Sometimes It Really Doesn't Happen

I was a weird kid.

As a kid, my parents told me I played a lot on my own. I did not have any friends my age since we did not have neighbors (or was it because I was not allowed to play with them?). We also did not have a TV set since my parents were only starting out on their own and we used to live with my grandparents.

I did not have dolls to play with too since my mother never really believed in handing a kid a baby doll to mother when she can barely take care of her own self.

Anyway, I used to spend my time playing god or goddess. I created people out of drinking straws, pieces of paper and even ball pens.

Then, I would create lives for them to live and worlds to move in.

It used to be so much fun. Until my father became aware of it and started teasing me about my really weird habit.

Then, I grew a bit embarrassed everytime I was teased.

Until I got to know the magic of ballpens and papers. Instead of my usual toys, I started drawing my thoughts, my sotries and my world on my notebooks.

As I progressed later on in life, I discovered the elusive magic of words.

I found out that no one is really interested with notebooks filled with odd scribbles compared to notebooks filled with easy to decipher figures.

I started playing with words.

And grew obsessed with my stories, the world I created in it. Until the stories stopped pouring and all I had left were my thoughts…and the words.

The creative process has left me and I was no more than a shell triyng to insist on the writing of stories that no longer besets me.

I have stopped dreaming.