It’s not my blog name that has changed, some passions inside me have grown, I’ve grown. And if i’ve grown, it means i have changed.
I am constantly discovering myself, who i was, who i really am, who i want to become, … This feeling nurtures my soul – knowing who i am, but still not knowing fully. In this constant process of self-discovery, I dive deep in my true person, as though i was a girl leaning on a limpid, clear lake looking for her best reflection, the one in where she could find the most of her.
Since i was a carefree little girl, i really liked writing stories. I wrote about everything that came to my mind: about fairies, little girls like me, about what i would become when i grew up… random stories. Then, I woud illustrate all of them with my colored drawings. I loved the idea that i could demonstrate what i was thinking about, what i could see of the world, what i read in books, in some little stories. After writing as much tales as i wanted to, i woud make two holes in each page, I’d gather them all with a line and i would make a cardstock cover. It looks like a real book, the ones we buy on libraries, i would say to my mother, I want to be a writer.
And I continued writing stories, even if i wasn’t very handy, even if i dind’t had that knack. I wrote stories because i liked. However, some things happen when you grow up in the teenage years – either you foster your child’s dreams, and they grow intrinsically to your nature, becoming inseparable from you, or you forget them, leaving them behind for the nonsense and foolishness you now consider them to be. And that is what happened. I kept drawing, painting, developing this skill of mine, discovering new media – acrylic, oil, charcoal, pastel, graphite, watercolours,… – , but i gradually started neglecting this other hobby – writing. Neglecting doesn’t mean that i have never written anymore. I have continued writing some short stories, little thoughts, but always in the same level, not striving to improve more at each step i took.
In this way, i’ve and i am still changing. I want to explore new facets of my being, new skills and abilities i want to cultivate. Writing is one of many. I’ve come to realize that i draw and paint and write and photograph, for much poorly that it is, more than because i enjoy it, because it is part of my being. These activities are the open doors to my integrity, different means of achieving the same purpose: to express myself as the Anna I’ve come to know, to play me better than anyone else in the story we will all end up being.
Besides that, these are just severe ways of telling stories, ours, our friends, strangers, stories from fictional or invented people, all kind of stories, in which we may or may not be the characters. And this is the magic that i feel whenever i am painting, taking photos or writing. The sensation that i am just telling tiny stories. Our tiny stories.
“There either is or is not, that’s the way things are. The colour of the day. The way it felt to be a child. The saltwater on your sunburnt legs. Sometimes the water is yellow, sometimes it’s red. But what colour it may be in memory, depends on the day. I’m not going to tell you the story the way it happened. I’m going to tell it the way I remember it.” Charles Dickens