When I was young I spent too much time on the breakwater that bordered the perimeter of the fish pond. My father had built them painstakingly to avoid the waves crashing directly against the dikes. Why I found it so appealing to pass hours after hours on the top of it, I don’t know. Maybe it was the serenity of the place or the fact that although it was not mine in some way I staked a claim on it and made it my own. My private domain where I can be who I wanted to be (mostly Sinbad the sailor or a pirate, a notorious renowned female pirate_ I used to draw images after images of her on every available surface including the wooden steps of our stairs_ and I did not have to share it with my siblings; I found the perfect place!

Much to my father’s chagrin who was so traditional, he believed in designated roles both for men and women. He asked me quite often that time if I fancy myself a fisherman or a mermaid. I could not answer him. It was not proper in our tradition to talk back to your parents. Everything they say is rhetorical. Attempting to do otherwise is courting a disaster. Best to shut up and listen. Always listen, and do what was told. 

We have never been encouraged to voice out our opinions, something I very much longed to do because my father had a way with words. Everything that came out from his mouth was designed to make someone (especially us) feel worthless and dirty. (No, I am not whining!) Something he got in common with my ex. but I don’t want to dwell on that, I rather focus on today’s topic which is utopia. 

Where was I? Ah…

I can still vividly remember the feeling My Own Private Idaho was evoking in me years after we moved to yet another place, and the accompanying longing to go back there again.  I wanted to experience once more the sense of awe seeing the vastness of the land (when low tide) and the moody temperament of the sea (during high tide) they never fail to overwhelm me. It’s gone now. I cannot remember anymore the last time since I truly feel uninhibited and one with the sea.  It’s lost among so many other faded laughter and forgotten memories.

I always find tranquillity there. Something I still feel a necessity for my restless, wandering tortured soul. (Wow!)  There, I could think.

On that very top of heap of stones; I first realized (when I was eight) that the world has nothing to offer to me. (Yes! eight!)  The very first time that I felt: “Been there, done that.”

There I found out that I could write stories in my head. More vivid and alive than on any paper. That I could change and shift them according to my moods, and as many variations as I wish. And the characters I created are real, with real feelings, hopes and dreams; just like us. These things always make me smile…

There, on that breakwater; I learned to fantasize…


Reply to today’s challenge  Writing 101: A Room With A View