I sometimes wonder why I stopped writing/imagining. My imagined world is the coolest place to be. I am a budding movie star giving a talk show and all of a sudden I am dancing at a college party all the super cool and difficult steps. The boy I had a crush on is gobsmacked after looking at me. He is wondering how he survived all these years without knowing me and he knows that now the only way he lives is if I am with him. The wind blows and our eyes lock and we are in love, but we don’t tell each other and let the eyes speak and meet each other every day. Next thing I know I am in New York I am really tall and wearing very high pointy heels. My hair is swishing in the wind and I am getting late for a meeting. I am the youngest boss of that place wherever I am going and everyone admires me and is scared of me too. Next thing I know I am in a meadow with the most exquisite scenery in front of me. I am wearing everything prim and proper and I feel so relaxed. Suddenly I am on the stage accepting the best actor award…..
I wonder why I stopped imagining. Maybe because when I was in school there was so much left to see. Now, after experiencing few years of adulthood I don’t want to see anything else. I don’t like growing up. I wasn’t made to grow up. My imagination has given me such high standards that my life is half dead trying to match up to it. I want to imagine again but “logic” tells me to stop being childish and well what else is there? It’s so weird to be stuck in the middle. I can’t live in my dream land because I know better and I don’t want to live in the real world because it isn’t better. I hope I survive. Because I gave up on living a long time back.