*post script first.
Time passes by when I think of the last time, when was it, that we played our little game of catch a crook, or was it hide and seek around that old tree in the backyard. That childhood past, oh, how long has it been. Get a new hobby, they tell me now. Start something new, they advice. Learn a culture, they ask. What's new, they implore. Now, they question. I stare into the warehouse of my head- sparkling eyes, wandering souls, stolen smiles- I answer, as I pack my tools, there's so much for me to do.
The dreamers, my culture, as I stumble to answer.
The musical figurines, my new hobby to tell and paint and dance and sketch and turn wheels. The craft.
I don't come from this world of real.
~I grew up in glass castles and amongst hollow enchanted caves. It was somewhere around where dreams are made- oh, could be the golden pot at the end of a rainbow.
Silly, you called me. Dreams, still lead me on.
Just see my work station, you'd know what I'm talking about. (Of course I work). But I still secretly live in the notion of my need to fall asleep to let Amelia Jane roam about along with the other billion little elves.
I'm the misfit outsider. The weird writer. The wary dancer. The difference. The dreamer.
|'she dances to the song in her head,|
speaks with the rhythm of her heart,
and loves from the depth of her soul.'
Starting out as fiction, balancing on words and wires, it is something i'm growing to live in. The song is still playing, is what added to words rolling in. (Ludovici Einaudi- nuvole bianche)