Tell me how to measure my imagination; its life span, its contents, its worth.
Sometimes he imagined that the lessons he learned actually counted for something. As a child he’d imagine himself with monsters, as an airplane, or driving a big truck. He imagined buildings paling in comparison to his height. He would imagine the compliments given to his parents by his teachers, ones about how he was ‘such a well behaved boy’ and how he really showed potential. From the moment he could, he imagined making something of himself.
He eventually imagined himself with a girlfriend. Holding her hand and walking her to class, she would be his girlfriend; the one with the dark brown hair and perfectly shaped lips, the girl with eyes that cut like glass right through yours. He imagined reading her thoughts, and stopped just as his mind began to dance around the thought of her reading his. What an embarrassment that might be. He grew out of this quickly as he felt himself slipping, and quickly matured into something other than the guy who had to constantly wipe the drool off his chin. That wasn’t him, he didn’t need her.
He would waste time imagining that he had all the time in the world. If he slept, he would dream. He would fall asleep every night to his thoughts... pre-sleep ideas of how to dream like he wanted to. He grew up way too quickly this way. His family moved, his friends changed, his beliefs changed, but his imagination didn’t.
His illogical thoughts were his mind’s foolish playground.
His illogical thoughts were the genesis to his sanity.
He eventually went on to imagine himself winning awards for his thoughts: writing dramas, poems, and novels. His parents told him one day he was going to ‘heal the world with that mind of his.’ His mind even allowed him to believe that was true. He went to school, dreamed through class, got a job and dreamed then, too. At night when he heard the echo of sirens flooding through his window he would close his eyes and pretend it was the unified applause of a pleased audience. He wanted to be inspired.
He laughed with people, he controlled people, he cried and made people cry. He made people scream... he sucked their blood with his thoughts. It was his own little game. He loved them because they were his. His imagination was the only thing no one could ever steal from him. The world could drain his body, but his mind was never theirs.
He wrote his thoughts down neatly on a blank sheet. His compilation was mapped out perfectly with metaphors and similes, allegories and hidden answers to his very own questions. It always had to be perfect. This was all of him. This was his blood on the paper; each sheet just as perfect as the next. The very first thing he wrote was left on a crumpled sheet of paper with ink smudged all over it. When he moved out of this house he pinned it up on his bedroom wall. He wrote it on bathroom stalls and in alleys downtown. Though there was much more to follow, it was this that he really believed:
“Tell me how to measure my imagination; its life span, its contents, its worth... The weight of everything it is. I imagine it would take a million years to find an answer.”
He found it funny that it would take approximately 7 seconds to sell his soul… something worth much less to him than his mind anyway.
“I’ll imagine myself dying. I’d imagine my entire life might flash before my eyes when I do. I will remember that I dreamt, and that I thought. I’ll remember when I lived, how I lived... or that I never really lived at all. I’ll imagine myself dying, and the whole world dying with me. My time would be up, my thoughts would be over, my being just dead weight. The measure of my thoughts then would be about 82.6 years in length, 132 pounds in weight, and 5 foot 2 inches in height. My thoughts would still be all I am.
Or, I’ll imagine that the world somehow still goes on without me. I will continue to write, though. They always said I’d heal the world with this mind of mine. I hope that you learn. Learn to laugh, learn to fly, maybe even learn to think that you’re alive; something people always seem to be good at, even though I’ve learned that it's not always true. Like that whistle in the wind that tells stories of its purpose, my thoughts will press a hush on you. My thoughts... your thoughts are worth more then you could ever really imagine.”
His words, though, were proved useless.