When I was five years old I couldn’t understand why the sky was blue and the clouds white. Yet I was happy, because blue and white looked nice together. I wanted to paint my own world. “Maybe this rose could be white. I like white roses. And this tree’s leaves dark red.” In my childish mind there was just one thing that mattered : Imagination or in greek Φαντασία(fantasia). I would often express this belief to my surprised mother. I didn’t like playing with dolls. I liked imagining stories about dolls. At some point I realised I was late at my appointment with reality. And it’s not polite to be late.
Today I’m still imagining stories, but about people instead of dolls.
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