Honestly, I dont know what this is. Just needed to clear my head.
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I have known love.
I am young, but I have had the privilege of knowing love, being loved and in turn loving another.
From the moment I felt the warm wisps of the summer wind against my cheeks, I was enveloped in a cocoon of comfort. The comfort I found in knowing that I will one day realise all the good things life had to offer, along with the bad which seems irrelevant in comparison to greatness.
Familial love was a given.
I was a first born and I was raised with undying passion.
And the passion that raised me, slowly but surely, seeped into my veins until it was all I was made of. It manifested into a raging fire that I had no clue how to put out and this starvation for something I could not recognize. A desperation for something bigger than what life had to offer.
Eventually, I came upon a place that offered almost all the things I craved. I found solitude in the spaces between words. Words that were strung together to create the most unthinkable of realities where anything and everything was possible. It helped, in some ways, to quench that undying thirst inside but it only worked for a brief moment. In time, the reading only made the fire burn brighter and the hunger became insatiable.
It is a devastating life, to live being hopelessly in love with things that are purely fictional. That is why most poets and people of literature say that it is a sad destiny for people of our kind. Depression and sadness was as familiar as the stars. For a girl who never walked through life alone, it is a strange predicament to always feel lonely. I couldn’t understand it at first. Why was I feeling lonely but at the same time I didn’t want company? Am I that ungrateful for the life I was given? It confused me and as always, my mind wandered and wondered.
I faintly remember a quote that helped me understand myself but I can’t remember where it’s from. It goes along the lines of ‘We are all lonely souls, reading just to be lonely together’. It made me think, and my thoughts are far from beautiful, that it wasn’t human connection I was craving. I wanted a cure for the loneliness in my soul. And the only thing that made me feel alive was when I was immersed in another universe.
My parents tried their best to understand and they helped in many ways. They would wait for hours while I lost myself in book stores and they willingly drove miles to get me my share of books. They stood by all my phases. I was a fast reader and that only dried their pockets faster but they didn’t mind. Not at all. And I love them for it.
I made a mistake somewhere growing up. I started on this path with small things like classic fairytales and a hint of Nancy Drew. As I grew older, I explored the vast genres to find something more align with my growth. I found myself smack dab in the middle of whirlwind romances and angst and new worlds that drawed me in like magnets. It was a mistake, because it made me want all the these things I knew were near to impossible.
I want a lot of things.
I want to venture in dark woods with a mysterious brooding prince who would fight beside me against a force of greater evil. I want to live in a cottage somewhere secluded with no worry in the world. I want to come across an abandoned castle and run through its musty halls, laughing as freely as I can. I want to be a part of a group of misfits, who slowly become my family as we search for a place to call home.
I want love letters.
I want adventures.
I want to leave this me behind, and just be.
All these ‘wants’ fill my head and made me constantly homesick for things I never even knew in real life. The characters in my books, are anything but fictional. I fit bits and pieces of them into myself and now I am all of them combined. And what makes my heart heavier than never being able to meet them at all? I am a happy person in general, but I carry the weight of my passion in my heart and my head and that is why I am constantly grieving.
I started writing not long after my pre-teens. It was another outlet for the cluttered mess in my mind that demanded to be let out. I love writing. I have said this a million times. However, the truth is that writing is my salvation. Without it, I would have been drowned by my own feelings. Do you know how painful it is to fit such extremely big feelings into such a small frail body? It is absolute hell. To always be the one to love harder. To always be the last to let go. To overthink situations and beat yourself up because of it. To be bothered by lingering moments that make it impossible to go a day without visiting the past.
My life can be fully understood by the things I write. Not properly. The formal writings usually hold bits of the truth. If you just flipped through any of my books, you’ll find scribbles. Those scribbles are the truest pieces of me. It should be dangerous, laying yourself bare for the world to read but I love it. I love having people know me through my words. It makes everything close and personal and it helps people see me clearer. Living with my heart on my sleeve is the only way I know how. Though it brings me sorrow, it is a part of me I am not willing to change.
I want to make a career out of this. It is my truest untainted dream. A career out of words, surrounded by my imagination come to life, oh what a pleasure that would be. To worry about what world I should create next and which little child’s heart am I gonna touch. Maybe that is why I never really enjoyed learning objective things. I loathed strict academic examinations because it didn’t suit my restless thoughts.The only problem is that isn’t how the world works. I could choose bliss, but it will always be second to leading a life with money. In this time and age, that is the thing worth worrying about. Not faraway lands of princesses and dragons, but office cubicles and paperwork.
A part of me wished I was born before capitalism. Although, the old days is not exactly a great place for a woman. As much as I want to believe I would have had a better life, I was granted this one for a reason. If I was not my mother’s daughter, I may not have this much passion in me. Which is both a bit good and bad. Maybe if I didn’t have this fire in me, I would be more at peace but without that fire, I don’t know who I am.
I am okay with being constantly sad and lonely.
I am okay with being cursed with the love for fictional things.
I am. I will be.
Not many people will understand this struggle but for the ones who do, find solace that you are not alone. Even if you are, the sound silence can be comforting. Embrace that silence. I hope you find whatever it is in life you are looking for. And I hope, both for you and me, that our fire will continue to burn. This world needs more believers.
All my love, Dee.
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