I was six years old.
I was waiting to reach our chalet. Letting my mind entertain itself for one and a half hour drive.
I was eight years old.
I had trouble falling asleep so I made up stories until I did so.
I was ten years old.
I read books that I loved so much, I had to create some sort of continuation.
I was twelve years old.
And the characters that book once gave me had done their time. I made up new ones myself.
I was fourteen years old.
I paced around for hours, living in my head, to give my character new lives and new stories.
I was sixteen years old.
I gave my character life every minute of every hour.
I am seventeen years old.
Now I know, it isn't simply "odd" to severely day-dream all the time and having her take so much place in my life. I'm glad I can now put a term on what's going on in my head.