Writer

I used to be a writer.
A self proclaimed writer that is, whatever that means.
I wrote about a life I dreamed of. A life that only lived in my mind.
Through my childhood insecurities I built a figment of myself. This figment had all that I desired. She danced with the wolves, she played in the rain, she had no fear.
Through my writing I found an escape.
Though sometimes dark, and uncertain, if you looked deep between the lines there was a shimmer of hope.
Hope that the future would be similar to the dreams of which I wrote.

Years later here I sit and think about the days that I lived in my head.
Where one day I was a rock star on a European tour.
The other day I was a sailor, seeking adventures at sea.
Those days that I created a world so unreal that it shone like a bright light.
I remembered how I was a writer.

How I wrote about more than projects and briefs.
How the world in my head was vibrant and colourful.
It wasn't quantified, qualified, analyzed.
It was irregular, written and re-written, angry and somber, or excited and enlightened.
I was whoever I wanted to be. I lived wherever I wanted to live and my naivety made it all possible.
The stories I made into dreams, the figments that danced in my head,
Gave me the creative spirit to survive.

I still am a writer.
Sometimes more realistic. Sometimes more black and white.
I no longer write the great fairytale, the great love story, the great adventure.
I write what I see, I write what I feel, I write my story, my thesis, my terms.
The rainbow of colour has blended into a few pantones that stripe along the words that I paint.

Though I long to be a writer.
To once again live in my head of mystery, intrigue and passion.
To create a masterpiece, a manifesto, a manuscript.
Elicit the childish whimsy that I once used to exude
And take another minute, a moment, a second..
In my head to just be.