Letters to my imagination
Dear my imagination,
How long has it been? Six, seven, eight years? Since I put you away. Left you out in the cold. Locked you away with all the childish things. My toys and my drawings and my hope that the world was full of life and joy. I find myself coming back to that place which I so roughly shoved you, dusting you off, taking you out and admiring you. Like an old family portrait that one takes out from time to time, remembering what you lost and what you've forgotten.
I've lost you, in that sea of time that claims so many. I remember the vows I made to you, to never let you go like so many of my fellow peers.
Now stop, rewind to the time when my mind was kind and my rhythms were fine like smooth wine on the palette after a nice dine. I died on the inside when the world told me to live by the rules set in stone side and to give whether you live or die to be productive in this big world of mine.
And how I cried as I put them away. My toys, dearest friends, those who would never desert me, who couldn't desert me.
It was I who deserted you, my oldest friends. I ran away from you as one would desert a malformed offspring. Terrified at the proposal of what would happen if you gave it love and devotion. Terrified of how others would treat you, how they would shun you. You who lived by your own creed. Outside of their so called "rules" outside of their dogma, which lashes and whips them back in line, in line with their fellows until they're all one, big, nameless, sea.
Oh my dear friends, how I missed you so. All these years I've only thought of myself, and how I ran, ran away from you, ran away from my family, ran away from love and devotion, and I think about how I got faster, I ran until nopony could catch me, until all the lies of the world gave way to speed. For there was nothing but speed. There was only the wind and endless blue azure below me. Speed became me, there was nothing else but speed and wind and the urge to win, to surpass all who came before me. To go faster, fly longer, be more daring, reach farther, be the absolute best. And I thought, deep deep deep down that if I did this, then maybe I wouldn't need to keep running.
But here I am again, the errors of my way, my lonely attitude rubbing those I called "comrades" the wrong way.
Those that I had called "friend", the wrong way.
Here I am, locking myself in this dusty old room where the venetian blinds don't reach. Here I am, the place where all my ghosts reside.
I know its hard for you, my prideful imagination. I know it is hard, taking back the one who forsook you, the one who gave you away. But I will reach you, I will hold you, and I will write to you.
Dear my imagination, please come back soon.
Lightning Dust
