At twenty three I could make up a story out of thin air as easy as I was breathing. Words would flow out of my hands, and out of my mouth and out of my soul so easily, so freely, so true.

It was second nature to create little words out of tiny ideas. One thought would keep on untangling forever and I relished it’s own will with glee.

Then I spent more time with images and then in my early thirties, I mixed the two. And then I got ashamed of it all. Ashamed of the magic I used to make stories, because magic was not decent, hard work and anything that wasn’t related to decent hard work was shameful.

My brain shut down all the magical corners and all I could get from it, outside of work, was silence. A profound and dark silence. I lost all my moods around that time too. Normal jokes that would usually get a cackle out of me, didn’t tickle me anymore. But for my Baby J I kept a bit of my creative going.

I seeded that bit and it started to bloom after I moved out of a miserable relationship that sucked me almost dry of all me. To my surprised, it bloomed. It’s first leaves where just newfound laughter and words. I began to talk again, make conversation. And little by little I got me back, not exactly as I was before mind you, but a whole of me. One that recognises itself again, one with a voice and a brain full of magical corners – different, but magical.

So now my brain is full of ideas, and sometimes they come up at random moments. Like today I was driving and thinking of Dragon and how much I did love him, enough to write him the most stories and how I could still write him a few more. I don’t know anything about him now, but I can still remember his touch and the way he made me giggle with joy and that untangles into a story, or three.

And I dreamed a character a few weeks ago and she was so amazing. She came up quietly passing by and smiled going away without a bang, but I thought of so many different things for her to do.

Maybe I’ll go write some of those.