Imagination

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Ever since I was little, I have possessed an untamed imagination. It continually rises each day, like an undying flame, eternal and mysterious, a light in a dark room that could be formidable, beautiful and thrilling. I look upon it as my internal stallion, sometimes controllable, charming and stirring, sometimes mad and heinous. At the times when I hold the reins in my hands and guide it along a winding but quixotic, breathtaking path, scenes pass through my mind that thrill my soul, burn in my heart and etch themselves upon my spirit, so that they evoke continually, a tableau frightfully wonderful to me. I imagine myself running, running gallantly, lithely and safely from pursuing figures, blurry yes, but pursuing perilously, and I escape by an act of pure guile. I imagine myself slipping fast into the grips of sentiment and passion, and sometimes lose myself entirely as I am enveloped in a realm of dazzling people, and a tall someone who causes my soul to quiver. More commonly, since I took interest in drawing which was since six or seven, I sketch out these pictures, which sometimes fully express the exact picture my mind eye beholds, but sometimes when this is not possible, I use words to complete the image.

But I could never depict those monstrous, freakish images that come to me in the darkness of night, when all the world is black, and I lie in bed, listening to the silent hour, my eyes wide and I see things, frightful, dreadful things I am sure my sister could never tackle and overcome. It is a well-known fact in the family that my sister and I handle a movie differently. If it is a horrifying one, I sit through and watch, unable to turn away, open-mouthed and stunned, while my sister cowers under her blankets and squeals. Afterwards she sleeps through the night in peace, not dreaming, but merely sleeping unbrokenly. But I am haunted by the picture I saw through, having never covered my eyes, and remember every particular detail that could petrify anyone. And as I walk in the day, sometimes alone in the house, or lay in bed at night, I fancy I see something beyond, beside me, in the corner, lurking disturbingly close, peering at me (if it has eyes even). This is my imagination.





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