Wild Imaginations

My imagination runs wild. It’s normal of writers like me. Especially as a writer who doesn’t write for a living. My mind is preoccupied with other things, so much that as I let it go, I start developing stories in my head, creating my perfect world of the ways people talk to me, of lovers who never want to let me go and of a world where it is easy to make people happy.

It’s when you think like this, that you start to see the daily imperfections of the world and what’s going on around us all the time. And only in the imagination can you change what you see and make it into what you want to see. When you have a wild imagination, nothing is really real. There are only certain things that you know for certain– you are alive and breathing and you need to eat and use the bathroom. Everything else comes and goes at your disposal. Every element of life is what creates your perfect world.

You are the writer. You choose the characters. Whenever you are tired of a character or no longer want a character around, you can erase them, pretend they never existed and carry on, building a new plot and re-writing your happy ending. It’s a power that must be developed as a person with a wild imagination and if it comes out right it makes you partly delusional.

No one can mess with my world, especially when it’s down on digital paper. Stories are told and everyone is a part of it. If you know me, have some interaction with me, your pieces of life get poured into my mini-world.

This is why writers are crazy. Look at all the movies, books, biographies about writers. They have issues. Or do they? Maybe they were just really good at developing their own world and believed it that it made them so good yet so troubled. Virginia Woolf, Emily Dickinson, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson and the list goes on. All so good yet, had troubles of their own; pained experiences that allowed them to write and write, creating a world that was impenetrable yet brilliant for others to partake in.

I don’t write books, however. I write stories. Stills from my every day life that make such an impact on me that I don’t know what to do with them all. Exaggerated stills that I could only dream to turn out the way I wished and then the imaginated stills. That’s right– Imaginated. Those stills of my life that I wish existed. Those human feelings, human emotions that I wish I could express without getting sweaty, nervous, stuttering or feeling inferior than for being vulnerable. In my writing, I’m nothing but vulnerability.

I give pieces of myself for readers to identify with; for friends to explore a bit more; for lovers to know the impact they made. Because sometimes, it just doesn’t come out smoothly from my mouth, but via my imagination it does– again and again. I say the most powerful, impacting, vulnerable words that make people feel connected to the human spirit– whether it’s mine or their own.

In my wild imagination, my words are witty and smart. I’m smooth and considerate. Everything I say is the right thing at the right time in a way you understand because I’m THAT good. It’s rational and reasonable. It’s lovable and kind. It’s everything that I ever wanted to be in real life. I’ve always wanted to release everything in my head, but in writing and through my wild imagination, I have time to think about it and make sure it’s perfect.

In my wild imagination, my world slows down so that I can grasp all the pieces and make sense of it all. In my wild imagination, people think the best of me, I love everything that I do and those whom I love, love me right back. In my wild imagination, all my pieces come together, the world makes sense and I’m a child having fun. In my wild imagination, I’m always in a beautiful place and sometimes I get to see those who have gone before me, having conversations I would never be able to have here.

Sometimes I wonder if what I’m living is the actual dream, while what I’m creating is actually my life.

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