Imagination

Why do I stay?

Anyone else would have left a long time ago.

I'm so busy putting myself in other people's shoes, I've forgotten what it's like to be in my own. But even this does not sound right. No one can ever be completely selfless. I do have more than an inkling of what it is like to be me. And so what?

What was it that Nick Cave said? Jesus is Imagination brought to life. Something like that. How true this is. Life is dead without Imagination. We all know people like this, who lack a certain kind of other worldly spark. They are practical and down to earth, creating little niches for themselves, with a comfortable home and money in the bank, to such a fault, that when it comes time to talking and opening up about deeper concerns or sentiments, or contemplating one's purpose here on this planet, they become fidgety, with a blank look on their faces, because they can't relate. And you're considered the odd ball. . .because of their lack of Imagination. Interesting.

My father is this man, exactly. But behind all of this comfort, albeit illusory, there is a deep fear he will not acknowledge. He does not befriend it. He does not take it by the hand or engage it. He just pretends it is not there. He is a machine like the rest of us. I wish not to be like my father. And I see that I am not, entirely.

I see that as a child, I had always been a seeker. I had always felt very strongly. I had always seen that I was alone in this. That he and I, we were on different planes. My heart soared upward towards the heavens and his, downward towards the earth. He made endless attempts to bring me down, out of love, in the hopes that he could fix me, and sometimes, he succeeded. I had not been strong enough. But my nature would not have it or was it my Higher Self? My Spirit kept moving. The more he pushed, the more my Spirit resisted. The more resilient It became. And my father was afraid of this. The contrast was so great between he and I, that I struggled for a very long time to find my way. Even now, his influence, if not kept in check, can tip me over.

There were no books in the house except for scholarly text books. We never played music. My art work, I kept hidden downstairs in the basement, away from him. My bedside radio, which I had received as a gift, was the only piece of equipment I relished, wholeheartedly. It's what I used to dream. That which he fought so hard against was that which I ran to ever more closely. And thank goodness for this. So you'd best believe that when anyone attempts, in my adult life, to proceed to tell me what constitutes the real, to repress the vehicle which brings life to creativity and manifestation, I will spit in their eye and offer a smile. To my father, whom I love, all of this was a waste of time, impractical, made me lazy and hazy. Not entirely untrue but, fortunately for me, I have no regrets.

Let no one kill that voice inside, that voice which says there is more, that voice which tells you to keep going, to keep creating. It is the Muse, the Daemon. Let IT flow through you. Let it be this that USES you for the greater good. We are instruments. Nothing more. Nothing less. But we must choose. And I have chosen.