As a child I used to be a dreamer. I imagined my future and who I’d be when I grew up. I wanted to be a musician, and, as I didn’t have any instrument, I’d go to the local music store to stare at the pianos. The other days I pretended to be a teacher, a dancer, or an artist. I’d play act scenes from movies on TV, copying my favorite actresses. I dreamt of being a designer, a singer, a stylist, a writer. I wanted to be all those things at once.
But all my endeavors were just solitary games. Every time I wanted to show my writing to adults I was told that, “It’s a waste of time.” “Singing is not a serious career (why do you even think that you have a voice?)” and, “Acting is just a surefire way to starve.” So I never showed my works to anybody and just kept dreaming stealthily.
My favorite toys were books with paper dolls inside. Each book had a doll and set of outfits for her. I carefully cut everything out and at the end I’d have one doll with different styles of clothes for her. I used to buy dozens of those books. Even when I was 14 and all my friends were already dating or talking about boys, I would go to the store, lie that “I’m buying a book for my sister (I’m too old for them, gosh!),” and run home to introduce my new doll to the others.
For every doll I drew new outfits and wrote personal stories of her life. Each of them had her own style, personality and profession. Every one was a different reflection of who I wanted to be. In this way, all my dreams to be so many people at the same time came together in a thick leather notebook.
I didn’t show that book to anybody, and I eventually abandoned it. Not until a few years ago, on holiday break, cleaning my old room in the parents’ house, did I find that notebook. Long-forgotten, old, rustic, disappointed dreams stared at me from the past. There I was, perpetual student, degree in linguistics, degree in acting, two years of computer science, and I still hadn’t chosen who I wanted to be.
Suddenly, standing in that dim room of my old self, it struck me. All those years, torn between responsibility and dreams, attempts to find myself in different universities and jobs, I was looking for something which was always there. This notebook, these stories and pictures, that was me. Me that I refused to accept because I was too scared to go another way, scared to listen to myself instead of others, scared of critique and falls.
I don’t want to be a coward anymore. I’m starting this blog as a revival of my old notebook. As a playground where I can find myself again, find my voice and vision, and just get back that joyful feeling illumination from the inside, of doing something I love.
Welcome to my blog, and let’s get started.