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Tuesday, 11 November 2014

Imagination




I live in a world in my head.

Not the Hogwarts or magical fairy land type world but somewhere that all my conversations are clever and amusing on my side and there's never an awkward silent moment. It's a place where every person I've ever wanted to be friends with is now desperate for my acceptance and every person I've ever dreamed of being with has been shot by cupid's bow and I'm effortlessly unaffected by their consistent attempts to win me over.

I'm cool. I'm uninterested, envied, the it girl.  

Except I'm not. There's nothing remotely cool about it. There's nothing cool about the fact that I sometimes catch myself immersed in this world when I'm walking down the street and talking to myself out loud (well actually talking to the other people in this world of mine.) There's nothing cool about the times I've laughed out loud at my own witty retort to the remark made by one of the 'characters', that actually I purposely made them say just so I could reply with a sharp tongue.

I rely on this world. It picks me up, it boosts my confidence. It's great shutting down any debate with your 'superior' opinion or being unfathomably inspirational for such a young person. Of course in reality I'm not and I don't really have people spluttering their words, desperately clinging on to their argument which has been immensely defeated by my concisely and eloquently put beliefs. If anything I'm the spluttering mess struggling to string a sentence together under pressure. I always have so much to say but I'm unable to get it out. It's like stage fright but on a ridiculous scale. That's why I love this world so much and I have no issue in admitting that I create scenarios daily.

I get so involved in the scenarios that when I'm envisioning a particular person in them I'm unable to stop myself believing that they're there with me at the time, in real life. I catch myself getting changed quickly and secretively and censoring my Google searches as if they're sat on the bed next to me. I talk to them regularly and actually typing this out is making me feel very strange about it all. How can this possibly be normal?



I found a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American essayist, lecturer and poet. He said ''Imagination is not a talent of some people, but is the health of every person.'' 

I didn't find anybody else's interpretations of it but how I read it was that imagination isn't a talent, it's not a trait found in a minority it's a trait found in all. Imagination is in the interest of the well being of the human race, it's what allows us freedom and escape but also the ability to grow.


His quote somehow reassures me that even if I may be a textbook lunatic my imagination is a gift. It's something that allows me to develop and be creative. I'm able to work on being the person I want to be by noting the way I portray myself in this alternate world. Even though it's my escape it's actually helping me realise which of my traits I'm disregarding and which additional attributes I'm taking on board as my own. 

Despite the fact that I probably shouldn't have admitted on the internet that I get so immersed in my own world I actually forget that I'm just making it up, I love my imagination.