I used to spend all my spare time rooting through my imagination. My bed was never a bed. It was a castle. It was a boat. When I looked up at the ceiling, I imagined the world was upside down. When I ate ice cream, I stirred it until it melted, and pretended I was shoveling mud into my mouth. I was rarely myself. I was a necromancer. I was a shark. A monster. I couldn’t wait to get home from school, descend to the basement, and hold a Barbie. Where does that creativity go, I wonder? Why do we lose that?
Nostalgic
