Inside-out

As farr as I can remember, It has always seemed to me that what is happening inside me is more real than the reality enveloping me from the outside. The sofa I lie on, the slow and persistent ticking of the clock, the voices carried to me from downstairs... my body set into this picture... all that so preposterous and far away in comparison to the stories that take place beneath my skin.

I have experienced this feeling many times, but I don’t think I was ever able to fully understand it because all we are taught as soon as we come to this world full of shapes and definitions, is to believe and live what can be seen.

I can see my body but I cannot see myself.    

It may seem, perhaps, strange but the stories flowing through my veins are the blood which keeps my heart beating. The world inside me, consumes me. It is more solid and true than any other words spoken outloud... more than anything or anybody around me.

Stories have mind of their own.

We are responsible for our imagination.

***

I stumbled upon this while cleaning up dusted shelves of my laptop's hidden territories that were drowning in forgotten and mostly unimportant files. The curious thing is that it took me over fifteen maybe twenty minutes of intensive Google search till I was willing to accept that the author is me.

I do not have a recollection of writing it. Every time a situation as this one comes around, an unpleasant feeling wraps its sticky fingers around my mind. I know we are not capable of remembering every single little moment of our existence... earlier or later most of our memories slide into sub-consciousness, to dwell there quietly until a random trigger disturbs their peace and they flash on the surface as an inexplicable déjà vu or a very distant memory. However, how is it possible that some things we are able to forget completely... forget so thoroughly we would argue with the rest of the world we have never ever done or said such a thing?

You may think it is not so rare to forget about few lines scribbled couple years ago (I looked it up. The entry was created in December 2009, during Christmas period. I named it after a book that, if I am not mistaken, I might have gotten as a present around that time. I don’t know why I named it after it because those two things have not much in common... maybe something in that book was a trigger that provoked me to write...) ... but I have a peculiar relationship with written products of my imagination. Usually, I remember exactly why I wrote it, how I felt, what room I was in, what was the weather that day, whether I was hungry or not... So I think I have a right to freak out a bit.

What if I forgot other more important things? Maybe this is the reason why it should not matter who we were but who we are just now.

All I can do is trust myself...

Because as I (supposedly) wrote... What is inside me is more real than anything or anybody around me.

Stories have mind of their own.

We are responsible for our imagination.

;)