If you asked me where I went today, I’d tell you that I wandered off on a journey and got lost. I lost myself in the black and white pages of someone else’s story, a fiction that came to life in the long-neglected depths of my imagination.
Externally, I didn’t move much. It was as if everything had conspired to grant me a much-needed blessing: permission to slow down. The day was cool and the rain, the cleansing rain that fell from the skies was the perfect soundtrack for this bookworm’s wandering journey. Why was the rain cleansing? It was so, because when my journey ended, I felt as though my stress had melted away along with the dread shackles it so brutally held my creativity captive with. Now, suddenly, I find that the cobwebs in my mind have cleared, and my fingers, normally so busy with the prose of life, itch to express its poetry.
Where did I go? I visited places I’ve never been to before. In my mind’s eye, I saw strange terrain from other lands and visited people I’ve never met. I felt the joys and pains of another’s experiences. I walked a mile in borrowed shoes. I, a single woman, witnessed and got lost in a love story even in my aloneness. I, who normally feels trapped, got a taste of freedom between the pages of a book! Yet they ask me why I love to read. I went to another continent, I visited the moon and for a moment, I was in another life.
Now that I am back to my own journey, the words are spilling out of my fingers, like the rain that fell from the clouds during my wandering. Or was it wondering? I wondered how the story would play out. I wondered how I would handle the same situations the characters faced. I wondered if anyone around me secretly shared the same struggles as these fictional characters. It was both a wandering and a wondering, I suppose.
Yet even as I rejoice that some obstacle in me has cleared, I feel a twinge of fear. What if tomorrow, when I awake, the shackles have been replaced and my creativity has again been locked away? What if the cobwebs in the recesses of my imagination return because I can no longer stay there? What if the heavy rock of the stresses I struggle to free myself from, dam the flow of words from my mind and fingers? This is a different type of wonder. I wonder how to keep a piece of today with me as I head back into the fray tomorrow. I am afraid, yet I am convinced that I must hold today’s journey close and let its poetry infuse itself into the prosaic routine.
Peace, love and sparkles,
The Unicorn of Awesomeness
Shespeaksandwrites 