The imagination is a wondeful thing. It holds no bounds, except for those that you apply to yourself. It allows you to carry yourself into another time and place where the cares and woes of your everyday life are removed and you become almost suspended within your own special world.
As a writer, yes that is what I call myself, I can drift in and out of a place that is very special indeed, a place where as a child I can express what I want without judgment. In this place I can be excused for being different because that is what children are, and I can dream. Some grownups are glued to the world in which they live, so much so that they become consumed with what being grownup means and at the same time they frown upon others that they think need to grow up. I guess my response is to laugh and feel sorry for them, because the reason we have so much kaos in the world, so many wars, so much of what we don’t really need is because the grownup knows nothing better.
The child in me now is battling to survive. He is in my words but they are strangled by many things. He is tearing away at the fabric of what life has wrapped him in, but to no avail, he is bound. Will he be released, will he be saved, what will it take to save him? Only time will tell, only those that are like him will know. He awaits the rescue, but at the same time he still dreams and with each dream he becomes stronger. Words are like the air that I breath and right now they are few and far between and I have shortened my breath so as not to use them all up and suffocate.
Later my friends on the Valentines Day.
The Friendship Tree 