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 email@example.com or follow her on Twitter @PittStephP.