Mind Games on a Late Night

Prologue

From the open window, my eyes were resting on the green meadows that rolled to the distance. One could swear that silvery golden sparkles were floating in the air, where the rays of the sun were hitting the bright green grass as it swayed under the sky. 

It felt peaceful; I felt the same. 

After all those years...of havoc...of distress...

After all those years, I started writing again. I turned my head back inside and my stare travelled around my small study. The bookcase opposite my desk was heaving under the weight of the books  overflowing on the shelves, filling its every nook and cranny. My modest, small white lacquered Louis XIV writing desk, which was a present to myself after my previous successes. Once bearing an old typewriter on its surface, now it was installed with the latest minimal flat screen of a computer.

I sat down and stared at the keys of the keyboard; took a sip from my jasmine tea and exhaled. 

Right. Where were we?

I asked myself and put my reading glasses back on. It was always frustrating for me as a writer to have a blank in my mind. Right now, a whole hour had passed and nothing was coming out...

To be honest to myself and to you, I felt slightly different since my 50th birthday. I did not want to admit it to myself, but my mind had started drifting off things. And let me tell you, it was frightening at times, while on others it was frustrating because it meant that I couldn't concentrate for a long time to one thing... and if that doesn't make things difficult for a writer I don't know what is...

I had thought about this and pondered long and hard enough on the reasons... Could it be the years of constant legal battles... The thought that I was doubted for my creation... The friendship I believed in and had broken in front of my eyes in the worst of ways...

Or something entirely different, something no one knows, and I never told?

Because every one of us have their secrets. The small bits of baggage we all carry, they are some people's doing and some people's undoing, depending on how they handle them... 

But there are also some things that just happen, without explanation, they bring you dead on your tracks, and at that moment in time, you know that you cannot go forwards nor backwards.

 And I happened to have a moment like this, a moment so totally unexplainable, I still try to understand whether it was real or not. The hole it punched in my mind however, and to be more precise on my imagination, it was so profound, that the woman that was me on that instance, she is still there, breathless and immobile, like a wax statue in a museum.

Always thought that we humans differ from the animal kingdom in two very basic things.  The ability to speak and the ability to imagine. I know that people differ from animals in other ways too, but for me as a writer, the ability to speak and imagine are particularly fascinating. 

Both highly correlated; by speech we were able to weave our imagination into words. To colour this fabric of words with emotion; to pass it on to future generations; and that re-telling of the fabric of words created other individual fabrics, of thousand different colours and weaves and shapes and that's how fairytales and myths and legends were born.  Storytellers appeared within the men, first with speech and then by writing those stories that were born out of our imagination and thus they travelled  to the four corners of the earth. 

Each story, its own fabric of lives of peoples born out of our imagination.

What happened to me almost eight years to now, I thought it was impossible, as I believed t that the fabrics of my imagination were my own and no one else's.  And so, with what I'm about to tell you, you'll find out the reason why I never re-visited this particular imaginary fabric of mine, the story of a little girl that many people loved, and why it took me so long to be able to finish it.