This world is but a canvas to our imagination.
— Henry David Thoreau

I was an awkward little girl, a little scared of the world, my existence more internal than external. My head and heart have always been full of life — imaginary life, felt rather than seen, seen rather than touched. People, creatures, events, and experiences woven from an invisible thread of curiosity, creativity, and magic.

I did not care much for the “real” world, or perhaps for the human one. I loved animals and nature. I did not need friends to play with — I played with the wind. I would hide behind objects, waiting patiently for the wind to find me.

I had a white horse and a squirrel who accompanied me to and from kindergarten. When I travelled on a bus with my mum, I was always on my horse, with the squirrel perched on my shoulder.

Even as an adult, I’ve never found logic very convincing. I’m more likely to believe the unbelievable, while what can be proven often feels suspicious. I talk to trees and bushes, have deep conversations with bees, dance with fairies, look for signs of gnomes in the woods. I send love to the stars and let them reflect it back to me.

I’ve lived a thousand lives in this one: I was a woman, I was a man, I was young, I was old. I was human, a wolf, a crow, a chicken, a bug, a tree, a flower, a blade of grass. I am a shapeshifter — I can transform into any creature merely by observing it. My inner experiences often feel richer than anything I could encounter in the real world. The feelings are deeper, the sensations stronger, everything more colourful and more alive.

I’ve learned from all the lives I’ve lived; I’ve gathered knowledge about the world and beyond.

Maybe I never needed to live as others do — touching, gathering, proving. I have walked through countless worlds already, ones no one else could see, where everything shimmered with a quiet, vivid aliveness. It’s simply the way I am. And if the world outside feels a little pale in comparison, that’s all right. I have lived deeply — even if it was all behind my eyes.

Who knows what’s true? Where imagination ends and reality begins? Maybe we all invent what we see — dressing the world in meaning just to make it bearable, or more beautiful. Maybe everything we call life is only imagination insisting on being believed.