As we grow older we are warned of the dullness of life and prepare for the loss of our childhood imagination.

I do not think it is gone, rather it is buried away underneath work and life.

When reading a book the other day I was taken to a place I thought I couldn’t go to anymore — I thought I had lost the wild imagination I once had as a child.

I didn’t know until I began reading again that my imagination was still there strong as ever — I just had to engage it.

When I was a child I would come up with stories and songs, the “play pretend” was endless.

As I read books the characters would come to life and I could see them in my mind as if I were not even reading. It was more like watching a movie in my mind.

I decided what these characters sound and looked like — with the help of the author’s description of course.

Throughout college I yearned to open the books crammed on my bookshelf but I never found the time as I allowed myself to be consumed by academia — which is not necessarily a bad thing.

Granted, I was reading amazing material for my classes and I was very passionate about my studies but it is not the same as opening up a story book.

When I began reading narratives again I struggled with allowing myself to engage with the characters of the stories I was reading — I was treating them like textbooks — and I put the books down only a few pages in.

I kept going back, telling myself to read at least one page, then one chapter.

I soon found myself wanting to know what happened next and began to feel for the characters.

If you want to take a trip somewhere magical and can’t afford it, try opening a book — you may even learn something about yourself.

— Stephanie Potter is a staff writer at the Morning Sun. She can be emailed at or follow her on Twitter @PittStephP.