The pink shelf cast a shadow of marvel across the spine of each book. I would graze my fingers over each title to decide that tale I would infuse my imagination with. I believe in inspiration from imagination. Imagination struck my curiosity when I was young and has grown to inspire me as an adult. My plastic book shelf was packed with Little Golden Books, volumes of Henry and Mudge, and the famous, Where the Wild Things Are.
I would listen to my father as his resonant voice sleepily told stories. He would often read me the tail, Where the Wild Things Are. It was almost bed times, and the books became shorter and shorter. I latched my arms around his; I wanted my dad to read to me until the sunrise.
And in that very night in my room, a forest grew. It grew and grew until my ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around. The ocean tumbled by, and a private boat arrived for my dad and I. We sailed together through night and day. We sailed in and out of weeks and all through the year, until we arrived where the wild things are. My dad and I arrived to see wild things roaring their terrible roars and gnashing their terrible teeth and rolling their terrible eyes and showing their terrible claws. But I yelled, ‘BE STILL!’ and I had tamed them. We both stared into their eyes without a blink, and they became frightened. We were the wildest thing of all. My dad yelled, ‘Let the rumpus begin!’ We danced through the night until the morning, for another sunset, and paraded around with our terrible roars. ‘NOW STOP!’ said I. It was time for the wild things to go to bed. But my dad and I had grown lonely. We smelled delicious things to eat, so we gave up being the wildest things of all, and sailed home.
As my dads voice had faded to silence, I watched the forest dissolve into a stark white wall. The tall grass that had once tickled my dancing, freckled knees had sunken into the russet, wiry carpet. The moon was no longer full, but a small sliver, a faint light. The abyss of night, a surrounding open sky, spewed from my petite, cookie cut window. The wild things that had once roamed the room were abstract shadows cast by stuffed animals on oak shelves. My dad’s eye lids had grown heavy, and mine had done the same.
I believe in imagination, I believe in our capability to escape reality through. Colored images, and forming relations with fiction. You cannot truly understand the possibilities without utilizing your limitless mind. When I was young I was guided by a resonant voice. As I grew to mature, I learned to search for that voice everyday. That voice inspires me to achieve the impossible in measures, and to pursue an innovative journey in life. I believe in inspiration from imagination.
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