Growing up, I had only my mother as company. Between the ages of 3 and 8, I would accompany her to different college classes she was taking due to us not having a babysitter. Sitting under lab tables with blank paper and crayons listening to the prattling lectures of dried up science professors was just the beginning of the development of my imagination. When I was old enough to understand what was being said, my mother, with the approval of her professors, let me help her with the dissections and analyses of strange animals and insects. My mind was a sponge and, with each new discovery, it expanded. I explored forests around my house. I would get lost in the basement libraries of the university while my mother did research. Hours were spent trying to figure out what the back stories were behind the hundreds of taxidermied creatures sitting in glass cases along the numerous halls I was lucky to walk down. The graveyards littering our countryside were this little girl’s fantasy world. Every tombstone held the mystery of who that person was lying beneath my feet. I would imagine what that person’s life was like, who they were and what brought them to that hole in the ground. As my brain grew over time, so did the fantasies it produced.
My imagination spreads its’ wings at night. I am able to fly over tree tops, run faster than any living thing, create mountains, and talk to ghosts. I meet movie stars, host grand parties, fight off aliens, and sail the seven seas. With each new dream, my imagination grows more complex.
Life is more interesting when I’m asleep.