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Rated: E · Preface · Arts · #1077654
Automatic writings by myself as I was somewhere else.
Part 1 from the trilogy

Diaries of a dreamer


What you are about to read is a true story however some names have been modified out of respect for those who wished to remain anonymous but the events recounted as the emotions conveyed are true to reality or should I say to “surreality” or the absurdity of life in this case.

So here I am writing this while hopefully other people are living their dreams instead of dreaming their life like I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.

This is not a complaint by any means; it’s simply the realization of what my life has been and unfortunately continues to be, that is somewhere else!

In the foggy zone where I spend most of my time by myself at the threshold of an imminent dream or on a long and narrow dock line fishing for inspiration with time as my bait. I’ve always been a specialist at being there but missing.

You see, I am the child who never belonged, the kid who still refuses to grow old after half a century of taking the wrong turns. I’ve had my fun and can still hope for some more once in a rare while but the illusions that I used to feed off are becoming awfully rare and that is a real shame. Now if I was crazy, reality’s little imperfections would be that much easier to accept, I would never be plagued with the heavy burden of choosing sides. I wouldn’t question anyone or study anything to find the right way or escape from the wrong one. My disease is not contagious, I assure you, artists usually move out of everybody’s life and find original ways to shrink until they completely vanish to make room for the next poor soul. I used to be busy all the time most of it was devoted to others. I’d be writing songs and poems, composing music and playing it, painting illusions and dreams as I forgot myself.

Somewhere else! Where was that?

What if my biological mother had been right in giving me up for adoption before I ever got the chance to taste her sweet milk? To this day I’ve been asking myself why I love chocolate so much; wondering why sugar is a drug to me still. Why is it I never belonged? I never played with other children, in fact I don’t remember playing as a kid, I preferred sitting in my little rocking chair and smoking my little plastic pipe; imagining clouds of smoke escaping from its chimney.

I never even had any imaginary friends since I didn’t need them but I guess I needed enemies cause I had a few of those imaginary creeps. I was a witness of this side of things as well as of the other. I saw life as a mirror but one with double realities, both of them all too real. I believed mirrors to be doors that offered us a choice in planes of existence. I also loved to eat colors preferring reds to all others because they were sweeter of course.
© Copyright 2006 LorAngel (m.lorange at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1077654