Writing as a child …
“When I was a child I wrote my own freedom. I wrote my own dreams. I wrote out any experience my soul longed for. My world lied in the spaces between the lines of blank pages, where I could meet the most interesting people and go through the most amazing things, see places I could only imagine and feel more than ever before. It was my heaven on earth and I was the angle coming to save me” — Alicia Adams
I still remember the places I have been to; the sounds of the African Savannah at night, the sky lighting up like fire as the sun disappears below the horizon, the sweet sight of water after believing you were going to die of thirst.
I remember these things so clearly, even though I have never been there myself.
I can almost smell the dirty fur and rotten breath of a predator I loved deeply, a young lonely lion male looking for somewhere to go after being kicked out of his family pride. Lion, my beloved friend in loneliness, he is responsible for my idea of power in peace and calmness.
I can’t help but ask; Did this shape me? Did my stories become a reality in my memories?
Did Lion make me less lonely even when I wasn’t glued to the pages of my notebook? Did the freedom I experienced make me feel trapped in the real world? Did those written adventures with others make me a more compassionate person?
I feel that it might, because deep in my heart I still feel protected and blessed by the characters and places I once created in my head. I feel like the words that come out might be what actually teaches me things.
I don’t know if writing has changed me, but I know one thing for sure, every word I have written has taught me about something I didn’t know before.