A very special conversation.

23 January 2011 (I wonder why it isn't already in my blog)

Excuse me, while my brain suddenly remembers an old conversation between Jasmine and I on the said date when I picked up Enid Blyton's The Toy Soldier and Other Stories and started reading it. This post is very personal; you've (if there really is anyone who reads my blog besides me) been warned.

When I was a child of around 5 or 6 years of age, my parents used to read to me all sorts of books, and I would be enthralled by the story telling abilities of Enid Blyton and her wonderful worlds, Aesop's Fables and his stories with moral values, of animals and humans coexisting, Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox; where animals are desperate for food due to humans, or The Witches, where a small boy saves the world, or even James and the Giant Peach, befriending kind insects who care for him just as much as he cares for them. Stories of Peter and Jane and how they simply enjoyed their everyday life, visiting a farm and playing with the animals, or going to the beach. Everyday was magical to the characters, and I could feel their magic add colour to my otherwise boring childhood.


Elves, fairies, pixies, talking toys, magic; how good boys and girls are rewarded and bad boys and girls learn to turn a new leaf and be good. How there existed a place called Fairy Land if you believed it exists; just around the bush, under the rabbit hole, or simply in a path that you never walked before. It was there, and they welcomed the little children to teach them valuable life lessons, and to add a touch of fantasy to their life. I used to imagine myself going on adventures with Tom, or Harry, or David, or Anne, or Jane or whoever; as they climbed trees to other lands; like the Land of Story Tellers, or the Land of Giants, or the Land of Ups and Downs, where we can meet funny characters like the Mayor of Topsy Turvy Land, the kind Cuckoo, or the naughty Pixie, or the smart elves, or the Queen of Fairy Land; where we help them solve their problems, where we join the parties and balls and eat blueberry tarts and grandmother's delicious pies, or suck on honey apples and so much more.

I really miss those days where I can just pick up a book and start to live in a world where anything is possible. I've grown, and I've become bitter, and cynical, and pessimistic to the point where I can't seem to enjoy the stories as much as they deserved to be. I guess I've been through many things, though I'm sure many will say it pales in comparison to theirs. But that's the reason why I'm not completely dead inside just yet. A lot of people call me a realistic person, logical; square. But I really do think I'm a dreamer. I imagine a lot, I fantasize about everything, and most importantly, there used to be a time when I believed that anything could be possible.


I'm still alive, I'm still fighting, and heck, I will win.


Just a boy who is learning to pen down his thoughts and feelings onto pieces of paper in hopes that one day the world will be able to read them and relive a childhood of bliss and ignorance.