Sonja Sellin
This story explores the confusion of one young girl and her own personal exploration in life. Unable to truly understand or even want to know about the ordeals she faces, she pretends that most of the accounts are not real. This has her delve deep within her, until; reality is nothing but a blurred vision.
Imagination is a wonderful obsession. Its dimensions are boundless: It can take you to a variety of places, change the events, create an atmosphere, and make you feel as if you’re in control of the uncontrollable, to tolerate the intolerable. The only trouble with it though, is that you can forget the truth, the real. It can become a very necessary part of life for you, where surrealism is your realm. I know this now. How it begins I don’t really know. I suppose the commencement of such thoughts happens for the sake of sanity. Whereas, some would say that to take oneself to another portal and not face the actual existence of circumstances, would be a way of escape and disregard. My name is Sarah, I don’t ignore the truth but I am afraid of it...
In a world where there are no boundaries, other than to simply survive. Sarah is drawn into a world of deception, into the depths of drugs and confusion, where violence is rife! Throughout her journey she continually dismisses reality and drifts into her surroundings, blending in until she believes herself to be a nonentity. The only escape is to go and leave the most important thing to her behind. Battling, with a need for her self-infliction and ever decreasing self-will. Bereft and empty, she makes her decision.
Sonja Sellin – Born in London in the year of 1965 and came from a large family. She had travelled abroad to parts of Europe with her family as a child. Whilst growing-up, she lived in many UK cities predominately, the Midlands. Coming from a working class family, led her to go straight into work from High School. Later, she indulged in further studies, which brought her long time passion for writing to surface and take shape.
Settling in the rural suburbs of the Midlands, she devotes her time to her much loved and beautiful family and her enthusiasm for writing.
My reflection portrays a woman. Disbelief fills me. When did it happen? Touching my face, studying my movements, yeah, it’s me. I don’t want to believe it though. The skin under my eyes, dark and puffy, in fact, the lids were dark too. Too many years of sleepless nights or of haphazard kips here and there. Hazel coloured eyes look back at me, filled with too much knowledge. They had seen far too much. It’s too bizarre.
Filtering through my past slowly; fragments emerged from the depths and some of its occurrences. I suppose the younger you are the more susceptible you become to the dreamlike globe, in awe of the boundless possibilities. Developing, a world you can exist in. Devastating, traumatic occurrences are often forgotten, pushed out of the minds-eye, or transformed. When you think you’re going to die or you’re alone or you’re undeserving, you can alter your aura, and all of a sudden, transport, thus allowing, an almost inhumane situation, to take place. By that, I mean, at least by thinking this way, the event won’t take you over, not completely over. Unfortunately, feeling on your own and not good enough, causes an unknown, unwanted magnetism, and seems to bring unprincipled and violent mannered persons towards you that stick fast.
Naivety is a beautiful thing, but it has its place too. To be so inexperienced, so uninformed has a limitation on using good common sense. I had put myself in many situations where I didn’t speak up for myself, leaving me prone and pliable, to be used and abused by those who wanted to. It did not take long before a deep void was developing, I was plummeting into it. My surroundings became distorted visions. I did not know me. I did not recognise
my own refl ection in the mirror. In my thoughts I was still unknowing of all that had happened. Even though I suppose I was aware of the situations, to me, they were unbelievable. Mindboggling, areas of life, of which were so confusing. So, I chose not to accept the events as true. I would be completely fl ustered when, an associate of mine would speak of an event.
Somewhere inside me, I had some recollection. Images would fl ash in front of me, as if I was the onlooker, rather than the victim. But not enough to make complete sense of what my associate would say. On the other hand, it would be enough for me to realise that the accounts were somewhat true. But, they were totally unacceptable and to a great extent much unwanted. Hence, my response to the unneeded recap would not be very nice. Bristling with anger and undeniable discumfiture, my head would throb as I got rid of the orator. With the source of information gone, I would get high. As time proceeded, my acquaintances learned to keep quiet of my happenings. After all, it wasn’t as if they too didn’t receive such things themselves. Some did not mind speaking and some did. I had kept as many as possible boxed up within me. An iron clad box that I would keep chained and bolted tight, my very secret ‘Pandora’s Box’.
However, my interpretation of the way I saw things throughout my experiences, was not all doom and gloom. Running my fi ngers through my hair and then across my lips I smiled. I did capture moments of pure ecstasy, delightful times that I don’t need to modify. Those instants give me knowledge of friendship, sensual love and happiness. If I had not had those experiences, I would have never known of the other side. I would have believed that my misery was all there was and I don’t think I would have survived. Tasting morsels of good in living life had me still searching, for something to inspire me to live life to the full, to fi nd more of the hope. Hope can easily diminish, and even extinguish itself completely. You have to keep some of it active. Yeah, I know most the time it can let you down and this can disappoint oneself. But, one has to believe... whatever one has seen or been through...
