Our neglected imagination...
| The tears of my imagination are falling; the dreams of thousands of men from thousands of years of time manifest in monuments to their perversion: our lives. The good-willed nature of visionaries and revolutionaries have been assimilated throughout our systems and sucked dry—a type of alchemy—where something as pure as the wish for euphoria for man transforms to the trite reality that stifles our dreams; like a plague, we molest what is perfect in imagination whilst we transform it to decrepit reality.
I’ve forgotten the dreams of flying above the clouds in the sky, the majesty of the sun bathing my wings; it has all been vandalized by the folly of our ignorant nature. To possess the dream of being more than standard-issue, the desire for exaltation, is to have something of more value than all of the money in the world. This thing as intangible as imagination is perpetually battered; my tears fall. In this reality, I am trained by repetition; whatever I may wish for will be mine, so long as I try hard enough. I try as hard as I can; my dreams are stolen and given to me are the superficial dreams of systematic thinking.
Imagine, for a moment, what would it be like if we could steal away to the fantasies of our imagination? No longer would we be miserable creatures in farms of procreation, we’d be something more: kings and queens of fantastic worlds! Worlds of utter beauty and perfection would be our playgrounds in this masquerade of the imagination. We could use our wings to fly to far away lands, soaring high above the mountains with the dragons. Time would have no value in the world of imagination; we’d spend an eternity at the gardens of the heavens and another eternity sailing on blue seas in the sky. A million years from now, we could explore the distant galaxies aboard our starship, or ride on unicorns along mystical waterfalls. A billion years from a million years from now, we could declare a holiday throughout our kingdoms in celebration of the imagination, or we could lie in fields filled with ancient flowers, basking in the sun as we watch the clouds.
The imagination is taken from us; injected into us is the poison of reality. We stand here, dying; without imagination there is nothing but a shell. Puppets without will are all that is left; rudimentary animals that can only do what is necessary to survive and nothing more. My tears continue to fall—I have sorrow—I pity the human animal. Because of the atrophy of imagination, we are robbed of something priceless; the treasures of all intangible fantasies are forever destroyed.
My imagination fades away as I open my eyes and see that what is before me is reality; the inanity invokes resent for what is tangible, and a desire for what I cannot remember, because I’ve been robbed of it. Psychologically molested, we fall into the ruts of the societal machine and burn away any trace of imagination; we adopt preordained goals set forth by those who are ignorant of their own actions, as they extinguish the imagination of those who possess it. To live for just a moment as part of a fantasy of the imagination is worth more than living for ten thousand years without a will to imagine, to dream.