The Deafening Silence

I sit in my room. My little pink room. The house is quiet. I am not playing music tonight. No distractions, nothing to pull my brain away from the task. The monumental task of creating a magical world where dragons fly, little boys dream, and the evil that haunts you is something you know.

I was once asked why I write. The answer to this question is very simple. My imagination is better than any movie, play or book. I have made dreaming an artform.

When I was a little girl I loved to watch Disney on Sunday. Do you remember? After dinner the house was calm with everyone preparing for the work week. Then at seven Disney would come on. It was the only show I wanted to watch. I remember watching Pete's Dragon. This movie depressed me. What could be so depressing about a little boy having a dragon that protected him?

I didn't have one.

I had no dragon to slay my monsters, or to settle down close to me in the dead of the night. I only had my imagination. That is when I really began to dream. I dreamed of worlds where Faeries exsisted. Worlds where magic was real and I could be anything I wanted to be...

A Princess in a fairytale, Pippy going on one of her madcap adventures. Those were the good days. The special days of childhood. Where the real world and the imaginary world meshed and became one.

It was magical.

Special.

And all mine.

No one could take those dreams away from me. I had claimed them as my own.

When you cease to dream the deafening silence becomes unbearable.