Dec 20, 2016

Eleven



Anais Nin said: “I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me; the world of my parents, the world of war, of politics. I had to create a world of my own, a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I can breathe and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That I believe is the reason for every work of art”.

Eleven years old today, and I am amazed, I am staggered. Did I create you so that I would live again? Another life, another birth? Did I create you, so that I would recreate myself? Perhaps I wanted to rewrite my story in you! A second chance. I am selfish, broken and flawed. You are perfect, pure and magnificent. Another year older and I am blown away by all the wonder you bring to my life, by all the colour you add and the heightened, exaggerated joy, always mixed with heightened exaggerated fear, pain and sorrow. This must be what love is; excessive joy trimmed with excessive pain. At times when I am lost inside myself, inside the swamp of my mind, I am weak and ill enough to question whether you exist at all! How is it possible that I have something/someone so beautiful so wonderful? All I know is that I had to create you, my poor sick mind had to conjure you. You had to come.