Imagination — Beautiful, Terrifying and Dangerous
An imagination that can run wild is a beautiful, terrifying and a dangerous thing to have. As a child my imagination knew no limits, the games we use to invent and then play until we came up with a better idea, the constant staring out of the window on dark nights in the car visualising an alien invasion or being home alone and sending yourself crazy with visions of ghosts in the house. You were always protected from the ghosts by simply raising the blanket over your head.
I have found as I have progressed through life imagination is sometimes curbed, shouted out of you or just stamped on in many different ways. I love the naivety of children sometimes, the way they can formulate an opinion with little influence or being able to look at something in such a basic way. I think this wide-eyed innocence approach does need to be embraced and allowed to flourish in a creative sense, especially if all other methods have been exhausted. One thing that has stemmed my imagination is fear. Having an over-active imagination does lead to some stomach-churning thoughts or as previously mentioned, really haunting living nightmares. This affected me growing up with regards to watching any film with horror or that was designed to scare the hell out of you.
Only very recently have I just started to embrace my imagination again and allowing my mind to take me on a mental journey of exploration. The turning point was early October. I was out walking the dog after binging for several hours on American Horror Story, when I thought I saw someone ahead. I did shout out to the shape, mainly because I wanted to know if I should put Cooper on his lead or not. It seemed ever so strange as I got closer to the shadow it seemed to just disappear and I would see it further ahead. Having had a very weird and emotional draining couple of days I just went with it. My mind seemed to just kick into overdrive. I started writing a little note to myself about what I had thought I had saw. Combined with the notes and a period of silence I had finished writing a very short story about the walk.
I saw Death and his dog today.
I traced his outline with my finger, he cut a figure ravaged by grief
I made sure to walk in his footsteps, heel, toe, heel, toe
On the trees were gnarled carved faces of people gone by
A remembering to when they once followed in Death’s footsteps
His pace slowed and he glanced behind every few steps
He stopped firmly in the middle of the path
Turning rather abruptly he pulled down his hood
Offering a hand, his weathered face forced a weak smile
The hand was warm to the touch, not the ice cold hand of death we have come to expect
The heat radiated through me and into the rain sodden path
I dare not ask why he was here for I fear of the answer
The rain continued to lash down, rinsing away the smile on his face
It is now I know why he is here
For death must always walk alone and we forever follow his path’
Now I know for certain that I am not a creative writer or able to convey in written words what I am truly trying to say, but this little piece certainly lit a fire behind the eyes. My only limit recently has been myself; I claim I don’t have enough time. I always have enough time to write a piece like this. My hardest motivator is getting started and with this switch in my imagination I am hoping it’ll provide the spark to my creative and storytelling writing. What had inspired me to write this piece was Crimson Peaks and the great Gothic horror romance of Guillermo Del Toro.
Thanks for reading,
Andy
— Written while listening to this beauty —
