I remember as a child wanting to go out to play with my neighbours and expending most of the time engaging in creating a different world every day. Being playful was the fuel for being creative, and being creative gave me the courage to conquer everything I wanted.
One day, we were playing the rescuer hero, and suddenly, the building became a rocky mountain from where we needed to escape helping each other. We needed to climb down the rope, but not a regular rope, this was a superhero one made by a combination of our skipping ropes, our dad’s belt, and a blanket that we tightened together and attached to the second floor railing, and started our mission climbing down when one of our neighbours -thank God for neighbours- saw us and run to stop us calling, yelling, at our mother
“Olivia! your kids are about to jump from the second floooooor”
by that moment my brother had already arrived at the ground and I was getting to the outside of the rail when I was stopped on my mission, good time!
Every time that memory comes to mind I can clearly see that I wouldn’t make it, the robe was already loose after supported my brother weight and I was a chubby child, most likely I would’ve landed in an unfashionable way.
Anyway, we used to have fun and the link between our imagination and reality was unlimited, we could do and be whatever we wanted, and it felt GOOD. But, at some point that I can’t define, everything started to be difficult or impossible to conquer, my creations started to grow apart from my reality and they would be less frequent. I stopped marvelling, stopped creating, and one day without noticing what was going on I found myself searching for the meaning of things, a purpose, a life.
At that moment I knew I needed to go back to play.