Yesterday I was walking home from my friends house, it was a two mile walk up hill at night, and here that means in the brisk breeze. Perfect condition for relying on muscle memory and letting my mind run away with itself. I’ve been thinking a lot about this obsession I’ve had recently with Alice in Wonderland, the
absurdity genius of it all. I, personally, believe that imagination is everything (and real–as long as we have the cajones to make it real). What sucks is we’re told to “grow up” and “be realistic” and somehow we interpret that as a cue to stop dreaming, stop wishing, stop imagining.
I think children are geniuses. I think Lewis Carroll knew it. Walt Disney knew it too. If we give them a world where entirely anything is possible, look at the things they create! Things you cannot even fathom because they’re building the unfathomable, its wonderfully absurd. Like Willy Wonka, which by and large is becoming my favorite movie. I have always adored it, but its increasing relevance is making it more of a staple. I will admit, I cannot wait to have children and watch the ways they expose the world to their genius. I will encourage them in any way I can. I say that now, hopefully I won’t grow up between now and then. Maybe I’m something like Peter Pan willingly imprisoned in Wonderland. The fact that I just smiled at that…
we are the music makers, we are the dreamers of dreams
I have noticed a lot of change over the past few years, in myself in the world and in those around me. There are, of course, exceptions and some things remain more steadfast. Something I’ll always have is my voice. I used to make up stories all the time when I was little. I lived in many different worlds; leaving only temporarily and always picking up where I left back off. That much has not changed. When I come in contact with friends that have hardened with so-called-reality ( I prefer to define it as Imaginatiophobia) it feels like sandpaper against my skin. I have found myself using that analogy quite often lately. Sand paper. I suppose it isn’t entirely accurate as I’m not getting any more smoothed or refined by the occurrences. Just irritated; in the physical not emotional sense. In the emotional sense I get sad. My gifts allow me to see the greatest potential in people, the core of their very being, and when they have lost sight of it my heart goes out to them. Maybe one day they’ll find it and we can play again.
I read something today on Tumblr: Writers are liars my dear, surely you know that by now. They are creatures who do not hold friends, only sources. Creatures who will stop at nothing, who merely [do] anything [to try] to convince anyone who surrounds, any soul who will listen, any individual who will [surrender], anybody that they can corrupt into becoming just as insane as they are. The beginning of an era (source). I liked it. I loved it actually, and then I pondered its validity, at least for me. I suppose my friends are, in some part, my sources. They used to play a much larger role in my words. I think the chief contributor is my heart. Wherever it is that day at that moment is what comes out in this text box. I can sit down to write about one thing, and as if my own intentions had no say, I will be following out the orders of my Self. I used to put up more of a fight, but then I realized that those posts sucked. So I go with it, and I give where I am. A snapshot. I guess I will always have my eye for photography too.
May I always be 6. May we all. See the beautiful possibility in every single thing, and take up residence in Wonderland together. Paint all the white roses red, and eat cake that makes us grow into giants but never adults. We only age when we stop believing in the
absurdity genius of imagination.