Me, Imagination

From Imagination's POV

It is a bitter thing, to be neglected.


You see them on the television, poor starving children with potbellies and flies buzzing in a swarm around their heads. But they suffer nothing compared to the torture I go through.

She hates me. I don't see why.

I am the most useful thing she could ever own. Memory - that's what diaries are for. Why does she need to store them all up in her head, when she could easily jot them down, and use my expertise, something a mere pen and paper can not replace.
Why does she have to use love, love!, such a petty emotion! She loves everything, from her daft fluffy cat to her riddiculous siblings to the boy she has her heart so besotted to. She throws me away to embrace these material possessions - really, that's all they are.
And then there is music. Music, my friend music, has been tortured through her ears. Music is to be listened to, to be contemplated to, to provoke lyrics and beats and melodies from my amazing, nimble fingers. But all she does it turn it up loud, and try to tune me out with its rhythm. How can we be friends when we are putted against each other?
But I laugh whenever she uses sleep against me. Really, she just opens up her mind for me to read, to pluck my ammunition and to find her armour chinks. She might think her guard is up, but the fatigue is heavy upon her walls and they crumble with a little prodding.
Food is another matter. It numbs me, abates my anger. This itself is angering, but I can't find the strength to punish her. It is a worrying fact.


But I am imagination. I have immense power beneath my fingers. I have woven the masterplans of her stories that she takes so much pride in, I have knotted the depressions she so helplessly sinks into. She has no power against me, in the end.

After all, I have created a nice little worry about her weight, and she wouldn't want to eat all the time to make me go away, would she?

Reviews

[Lena M. P.]

Your words about your imagination are so dark. Imagination is a glorious place when we don't need money to build our mansions, we don't need education to extend our thoughts, we don't need substance because life is the colors of our imagination. You write as if the person you are fights the need to release this inner child that begs to be released and shared. Don't hide it away like a crazy aunt but throw it to the wind like butterflies taking their first flight form the cocoon.