Because I cared.

I walked the narrow paths of grassy fields
And often times, I would stop to observe
The story would be born in the centre of my brain
And the grass would be trees, and the dirt roads.

I could seat for hours, creating imaginary landscapes
Miniature worlds in which towns, cities, villages
And lonely homes would live
I would stop, and observe, because I cared.

I would create characters, and stories to live in,
I would use my head, stones, flowers, grass and weeds
As this world had to be perfect, and it usually was
When a story was born, it was alive for months.

I walked the stoned roads of my street
They were oceans, and the blocks of houses, islands
My friends lived there, and sometimes they didn’t
I would stop, and get inspired, and suddenly, I cared.

Hours would fly by, one by one, as I would see
And play, and imagine, and create
An imaginary world that would exist and be alive
Just and simply because I cared.

And just like that, the world around me changed
I was the stone, or the grass, and I was being observed
I lived the fantasy so many times, that one day
and there was no more to care for, I had changed.

SDIH (2./27/2008)