Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Imagination and Me


We used to be friends, Imagination and me.

I would run to her often, my child’s eyes starry and full of unspoken dreams, tales that Imagination and me would spin by the day. She was a companion like no other, and I was her heroine, her star, her lead for every role. We visited castles, Imagination and me. We soared with eagles and nested with fawns. We sailed the seas and survived Titanic, wrecked on an island, discovered countless treasures. We made it to Mars, Imagination and me, but it was too barren, for even Imagination could not change everything. The Moon was more to my liking. Often we visited ancient lands and forsaken civilizations. Even once or twice a courtroom with murderers yet to be uncovered.

  Imagination was a friend like no other.

But the years passed, and little lives grew busier. And Imagination was often left to her own amusement, trapped in the back of my brain as I filled it with other things. I still played with her, but not as often, for “When I grow up” was drawing nearer, and adventures seemed to find me without Imagination’s help. Every now and then I would call for her, and we’d travel afar again, visiting some of the old places and a few new.

  As the page turned, I found new uses for Imagination, closer to home. She was clever, Imagination, and she could twist even my most ordinary friends to fit any shell I wished upon them. From ravenous villains to handsome eyed princes or magnificent queens, we played with personalities, Imagination and me. A certain young friend became my costar, and we sailed through life together into the years of “Someday.” And I thanked God for Imagination, as life would have been too dull for good cheer without her. We smiled, Imagination and me, but I began to notice that her tales did not satisfy as they once had.

  Then times came when even Imagination could not ease the comfort of some pains. But I was grateful for her still. There were days when Imagination was my only friend.

  But more years waned and I nearly forgot about Imagination all together. I’d made a new friend: Reality.

Reality took my hand and pulled me into an exciting new world, and Imagination was forgotten, left to her own devices once again. But she was older now, like me, and she was waiting: waiting patiently for the day when I would remember her again, the day Reality would be found wanting.

  That day came suddenly and without warning. Reality betrayed me. Through my tears I turned to Imagination, but she was ready for that, ready with revenge.

  After tasting the flavorful thrills of sweet Reality, Imagination tortured me. She spun tales I did not want to hear, weaved nightmares in place of dreams, and everywhere I turned she was ready with another knife to throw.

  We used to be friends, Imagination and me. But those days seem gone, for the places we once visited have been lost, and remnants of Reality are all we find together. Each day she whispers in my ear, reminding me of the days I left her forgotten.

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