Imagination, where are you?

Before I realized what was happening, my imagination went missing.

As a child so many times we are told that our imaginations are best in our childhood. Maybe that is why it left me. It thought it was supposed to…  Could it be that when one hears that their musings are foolish, enough times, it flees? Yet I thought mine was stronger than that…  Is it when the responsibilities of adult life slowly press down there is no air left for it to breath? It leaves for a fresher world…  Or is it that darn melancholia? Is that not supposed to inspire? Maybe my imagination is different. It likes happiness instead.

When I was a child I would write stories, not grand novels, but intriguing nonetheless. My dolls would have personalities that could captivate me for hours. Story lines would fall haphazardly from my mind covering the whole room. Before long I would find myself wrapped in a world of my own making. This happens so rarely now and only for a few precious moments that are impossible to capture. They seem more like memories than anything new.
I find myself borrowing others’ imaginations. A book or a film grants a short reprieve. They will offer the same exhilaration that my own ramblings once brought me. Though it’s not the same. I miss my own imagination. There’s nothing quite like your own you know. There is still so much to say. To create. I can’t do it alone. I need you. Please come home to me, wherever you are.