Some call her crazy.
She talks to everything around her, from her blanket to her shoes. Her imagination assigns life to the inanimate world around her. All these objects speak to her, narrating their tales to the patient listener. And she loves their stories.
This girl wasn’t blessed with a great childhood. Her own story is one she doesn’t like to recall. Back then, she desperately hunted for a refuge and finally discovered it.
She found that the fragrance of a new book, carried her far, far away from the brutal reality that smiled at her menacingly. So she rejected reality and made friends with the characters in the novels, instead. Their story became her story. Turning into an inseparable part of her, they became her and she, them.
Stories were her real home. That’s where she lived. In a dimly lit room, she used to sit by a window, through which light dared to peep in, just enough to illuminate her and the treasure she held. She would then forget her pain and her own existence, as she let the words engulf her.
She lived in her world of dreams. She still does. I know this, because I am she.
I believe, all hope isn’t lost if you had a screwed up childhood. We can still find roses among those thorns.
P.S: The photograph is a part of the Photography: Developing Your Eye I challenge. Since I am a total amateur, I would appreciate if you can give me some feedback on the photograph. Thanks!