What is your favorite time of the day?
Is it the time when the sun rises, painting the sky a red hue? as if the light harmed the darkness; the blood seeping out in the most beautiful way. Or is it when all are woken, and the music of the birds greet you from sleep? The sun this time, no longer red, but a beautiful shade of gold as it shines down on your face, leaving warmth behind. Or the time when the sun is setting, becoming orange? As if it wants to stay longer on the surface but is drowned in the darkness of the other side. Or just the darkness, the midnight black. the color of coal being the only thing in the sky. Nothing less, nothing more. and yet it gives you comfort the sun could never give.
I knew toddlers my age would pick the time when the sun was in the middle of the sky, emitting the joy they all showed. They would giggle as they ran on the playground and pushing their friends playfully. But not for me. I would always wait impatiently for the night to finally come, for I knew that when I was already in bed, my mama would tell me a story.
And when the night has finally come, and I was already in bed waiting for mama to finish up, a smile beaming on my face. Mama would always laugh softly at my antics, the sound a beautiful short tune, and sit down on my bed, the bed dipping softly under her weight. A soft serene smile would always graze her face as she saw the light of excitement in my eyes.
And then she started. But the magical worlds she told me about wasn't the ones trapped in pages in ink, but the ones flying free in the depths of her mind. The main character was me, a young girl with an imagination way too big for her own good.
The stories featured my friends or the boys I sometimes caught myself staring at, in the lands of the pirates, fairies, and deserts. And every single time, I became a part of those many worlds.
And as I grew older, each year another candle added to my cake, I never forgot the stories mama told me. And instead of asking mama when the next story will be, I let my hands and fingers do the work and write the words and sentences to a new world. A world solely created in the depths of my own imagination.
A world stuck on pages, in a notebook, forever resting somewhere else. Somewhere safe and beautiful.
Author Notes: i wrote this in twenty minutes and its probably crappy but its ok! i just wanted to share with all of you the reason why i started writing in the first place.
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United States • 18 years old