A metaphorical storytelling

The story I wrote, then, in 2002, or better, from 2002 until 2004, was more written in a metaphorical sense, than about facts or real fiction. At least, that is what I think now. Today, I understand what I meant, when I wrote that “she divorced him, and she lived in a big house full of memories and old furniture, which she was not allowed to sell, and him always allowed to use the house still, even though he did not need the house because he owned five other houses and flats/ apartments. She did not want him to come back but at the same time, she wanted it so bad, and when he showed up, she was confused or even annoyed, because he was so mean to her and he had so much power, she couldn’t even win over him in a jurisdictional manner, because it was his house and she was only allowed through him to live there… She loved him and she hated him (and the same goes for him, he felt the same about her), and he had so expensive lawyers that she was out powered by him… she couldn’t afford a lawyer, and so she waited and waited and tried to find out about her feelings and what she wanted, but also she was struggling with it all because she did not want to lose the house, she loved it so much.” Well, that was the fiction part, I will not go into details, that is too personal. But, the thing is, she was afraid of his power, and one sentence goes like this: ” his lawyers were so expensive, that they were also always the best.”  Another sentence: “the pressure on her began to be stronger and stronger each day, and forced her into an isolation she never would have thought it would exist.”

That he shows up every once in a while means, well, the thoughts I have of him, that I can’t let him go and the whole story, and the house in general means that  I am caged and that it’s like a prison to my thoughts and feelings of the past moment.

 

… and my religion is…

Well, and this is what happens, when “someone” becomes your “religion”.

It is so overwhelming in the end.  I cried yesterday, because I found out so many things I had already seen and I did not know. In 2002, I began to write a story, well about “someone”, and I went on writing over the years and I thought it was total fiction, also about me, and about him an his passion (his religion I think because it can’t be anything else, or these people who were around him and me ), but I did not know then, that it was about “him”, or about a religion. You know. I wasn’t aware who and what that was I was writing about. It was just for fun… and because I wanted to be a writer.  Writing by seeing into the future which is not written by then is like, the feeling to an extend where nothing makes sense… but actually, I thought nothing of it, I thought everything was as normal, I blanked out completely on what was not so obvious.

Yesterday I read my story again after all these years (which I luckily did not throw away as I had planned) and many details are as far as I know true, and are  fitting in.      It was clairvoyance, what else?  And then it shook me and I had to cry.       It is not for anyone to read of course, it is not finished or  good or anything, but it shows the many things which happened and are happening in the last three, four years and ongoing I think, to me it is shocking but as well wonderful. It is like a bond which was invisible and unknown to me.

It is either telepathy or something else, which I don’t know yet…. and it makes me wonder, nobody can say, that clairvoyance doesn’t exist. Because it does.

He must have such a strong mind. To me, that is mind-blowing.