I often take pride in distinguishing myself as person who is rarely bored, but Id have a much tougher time with it were it not for all the constant companionship of my imagination.
Funny anecdote–I remember exactly when I figured out that “grown-ups” didn’t dedicate the same amount of time and headspace to imaganeering as kids did. It was in the car on the way back from Florida with my father. I’d likely been forcing him to listen to either my singing or some horrific JPop compilation the likes of which would melt the brain of anyone without serious parental love. (Parental love, +5 against all Pop-based attacks!) I, of course, needed whatever din I had concocted. Without it, the melodramatic showdown between some heroine or another and her arch nemesis inside my head would have no background music! He had very nicely (I sometimes have NO idea how he did it!) asked for a stretch of silence. Silence. To think. I remember asking what exactly he thought about and how often he thought about such things, and honestly don’t remember what the answers were.
I can tell you that there wasn’t much time dedicated to leotarded amazonians kung-fuing their way out of an alien base though. It was then that I realized that adults didn’t always have some story or make-believe overlay running rampant in their heads…and I remember being stricken with a creeping terror at the thought. Day by day the worlds that I’d built would crumble. The characters I’d made would fade into disuse until I didn’t remember their names or how they acted. Everything I had created and the very mechanization by which I was able to create…it would all slip from between my fingers. It would only be on some bleak, boring night that I would recall with horror that I had once had something, now unrecallable, to occupy the space now beset by worries and daily tasks…
I’m no Neverland wistful, mind you; I like reality just fine. Still, it’s interesting the visceral way I can still recall that sensation. Maybe there’s still some of that fear gnawing somewhere in my subconscious. If anything, it proves just how much I love the magical ability to suspend disbelief and reimagine reality.
Well, age and responsibility have certainly mandated I make some room and time for all those daily tasks and worries, but I still find relief in imaginings of all sorts at times that often catch even me by surprise.
I wonder what it might be like to be my friend’s pug while we walk her. My mind’s eye adjusts to the notion of viewing the world from only a few feet high and smelling messages left by others of my kind in the grass. The knowledge I’ve gained has only aided my fantasies. A pug view, like most dogs, would be missing certain colors. Pheromones would light up different receptors in my brain, and from there it’s sheer conjecture.
I imagine ghosts and ghouls in the darkness when I walk. I play superhero in plain sight. I still crank the JPop and enact melodramas and fight scenes in my head…but now I write them down in an effort to share what has always brought me such joy with others. I give stories to the blandest games and concoct soap operas about my cats.
Whether real life is at its best or at its worst, there’s always excitement and refuge just a few thoughts away, and I’m so grateful for that ability and reprieve.
I hope I’m never bored– that the creeping decay of wearied living never reaches the bright, glowing (probably caramelly) center of my mind. Living is brighter with imagination, and imagination is constantly fed and nourished by the experiences and input of the world around me.
I’m grateful for my imagination, my rose colored constant company~!
~all the love~