I remember when I was little. i was never a really social child. It wasn't like I was an outcast - I had plenty of friends at school and went to my fair share of birthday parties and playdates. But I was never happier than when I was on my own in my room playing in fantastic worlds of my own imagination. Whether it was inspired by a movie I watched, a book I read, or just something I thought up, I was able to create this whole other universe and totally lose myself in it. I was no longer bound by the walls of my room or the confines of modern life. I was a princess in my kingdom, a gypsy in a forest, a mermaid in an ocean palace. There was really no limit.
As I got a little older, I began to realize that adults were different, that they didn't have this power. This really hit home when I attempted to explain to my mother what was going on in one of my worlds, and she just didn't understand. She smiled and nodded and let me have my fun, but I could tell that it just wasn't there. I passionately vowed to myself that I would never become like that. I couldn't imagine living only in the mundane real world.
However, time passed, elementary school shifted to middle school and then even high school, and things like algebra, puberty, and, of course, boys began to take over my mind. As I matured, my powers began to slide away, so slowly that I barely noticed. I guess I just figured I was putting my imagination into storage so I could bring it back out when I had time. In my preoccupation, I never noticed it trickling slowly away.
The only way I was aware of it escaping was through writing. I've been making up stories since before I could even write, and when I was little, I never had the slightest bit of difficulty coming up with characters or plotlines. But the more i grew and matured, the more writer's block began to fill the void where my once vibrant imagination used to thrive. My real wake-up call was last year, my sophomore year in high school, when I took a creative writing course. I realized I was at a loss when I really struggled on the simplest, easiest prompts. It was time for action, time for a sort of imagination CPR.
Throughout that class, I forced myself to push my own boundaries and re-expand my mental limits. Sometimes it produced spectacular results, and sometimes it crashed and burned. No matter - the real importance was in the act of practicing, re-strengthening my imaginative muscle. At the end of that school year, it was back! My most prized posession, my imagination, had returned to me! This year, as a junior in high school taking four college-level classes, I haven't had much time to write, but I have made it a point every night before I go to bed to at least close my eyes for ten or fifteen minutes and exercise my imagination through almost a meditation of sorts, picking a place I want to be and trying to picture it as vividly as possible. I will never take my gift for granted again. Now, as I embark upon my very first NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and consequently my first novel, I find myself looking back and drawing upon my childhood self for inspiration and creativity, shedding the conventions and preconceptions with which this mundane world tries to pollute my mind.
The moral of this rather lengthy tale is this: Never let go of that spark of imagination in your mind, and if it has slipped away, make it your goal in life to bring it back. Never even turn your back on it for a minute. It is your defense against the cynicism and suffering of this world, and it will take you far.
