No words in any one language could do my world justice. Something so complex can not simply be reduced to a few monochromatic scribbles on a piece of paper and I find it offensive that I am expected to try. It boggles my mind how anyone can have the audacity to place a word restriction on the “authentic” depiction of my entire existence. On a good day I like to challenge myself but the topic was too close to home and I could not stand to give an inaccurate depiction of who I am and the world in which I live. I do not feel like I have failed you but if I were to have written a generic account of one minor aspect of my richly diverse life I would have failed myself.
You and I, we are sisters. We share the same mother but we did not share the same womb. We were both nursed by the hands of our planet Earth and nourished by her fruits. We are welcomed warmly into her world and within her back yard boundaries we seek to create our own.
My sanctuary, however, is a place that only I can visit. Every night I get a chance to escape the constraints of my daily routine. It doesn’t take long to convince me. I’m already gone. Soaring through the clouds I rejoice in the excitement of coming home. My toes tingle as they touch down in the centre of my luscious field of memory. Soft droplets of dew drip from the blades of grass quenching the thirst of seeds already sewn. Here it is spring all year around and I pick blooming ideas and arrange them in bouquets.
Beyond this field lies a small rusted tin, nestled in the depths of my imagination and somewhat like Mary Poppins’ handbag and the wardrobe that leads to Narnia, the size of my tin is not directly proportionate to the value of its contents. Its location is kept confidential by the likes of one, Indecision who works hand in hand with Logic and Reason to ensure that what ever it contains can never escape. The deteriorating container holds my entire life’s savings, a sixteen year collection of fears, passions and subconscious reflection.
My world is watered with imagination and the flowers that grow are dreams. At night, as I gently rest my head, I am greeted by a familiar face. She looks like me only like she belongs. Her aura is smiling as she says, “Welcome to your world.”
