I forget who I am sometimes.

Forget what is important.

Forget that I am not quite as alone in this world, as I sometimes feel.

I forget to write, and spend my days wandering town talking to people and for lack of a better term, living.

I start hobbies, like building boats in bottles… building tolerance within my being. 

I practice photography… snapping shots of people whose faces I will then stare at for hours on my computer.  I will even go so far as to imagine what events in their lives caused various wrinkles or scars.

It is then that the seed is planted.

I do not see it being buried beneath the soil (beneath my skin, so to speak)… but it is there.

It will creep through my psyche, keeping my delusions company, and together they will concoct such wonderful tales.

For you see, my imagination normally receives its playtime via my writing.  When I am not writing, it has no outlet.  I can repress it for quite some time.  In fact, I am noticing that I am able to keep it at bay much longer as I age, though I know not why this is.

However like a river that has been blocked, two things can happen.  Either it can find the path of least resistance and continue peacefully along its way… or it can accumulate power and rage and burst through the blockade… sometimes causing much devastation.

Though I’ve enjoyed my time away from words, my imagination has progressively gathered much power and it would appear, much rage.

I believe it is time to release it.  Let’s see what it has to say.

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