There’s something gnawing at the edges of my consciousness,
a yearning for my imagination to return to its once free and wild self, free from the chains of conventions and the suffocating grip of that which is deemed proper.
I’m desperate for my imagination to spill from eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, defying the very boundaries of sensory perception.
I need my imagination to consume me, day and night, whether I’m kneeling in prayer, whispering secrets to the wind, or downing a bowl of cornflakes with oat milk and bananas. I want my imagination back, like a dharma bum longing for the open road.
If truth can set me free, then my imagination can swing open the doors to infinite possibilities, a mad and endless journey into the unknown, with the power to reimagine, to redefine, and to resist the limitations imposed on me, on us.
