My heart is full of songs from ballets. Nutcracker, Swan Lake and sleeping beauty. My blood seems to flow so thick like cherry blossoms and bamboo. Peter Pevensie and little Lucy and Aslan and Mr Beaver. Blue whales floating in glittered oceans and manatees and polar bears and tiny coral fish. Linnet, Toby, Alexander. The stories made my lips sting. Granny oldknowe. She was left behind, rocking the cradle and just too unhappy to cry.
Stories never leave me. I take a piece from everyone. Even the story about festi and the theiving gypsys. Black ferdi and petronella. I take a piece of them all and they seem to form more magical endings and more magical beginnings and more magical dreams at night. But where do we keep these stories. There are no organs for story keeping or for story writing. Where are they kept and where do they start from? Maybe from a meadow seed in your tummy.