Sunday, November 4, 2007

november four

(in response to november fourth)

I don’t walk anymore. And I most definitely don’t run. I float.

I fly up and down the streets. You still tell me I can’t even though you’ve seen me do it. Apparently seeing is not believing anymore because refusal to believe is blindness. The way children can see angels and speak to long passed uncles and converse with animals and climb the stairs without touching and walk on water and heal… until adults convince them otherwise.

Don’t tell stories. Don’t tell lies.

We’ve ruined the children.

(We are the children we’ve ruined).

It took me many years to get back to this place where my feet don’t have to touch the floor. As a child, I levitated but I’ve stopped telling people since I let you convince me I was dreaming. I’ve always had a hard time separating my dreams from reality. You took advantage of that. You took advantage of me. And you dulled my reality. You perverted my dreams.

You tried to kill my inner child.

But I still breathe from the belly.

And then I discovered others just like me. Others who did equally impossible things as children. Others who had been told not to tell stories. Others who had been told to put their imaginations away with their other childhood things, but secretly still sneak into that closet and climb up to the top shelf and giggle and spin, doing unbelievable things. Others who have still not forgotten, who still imagine, who still believe.

They are called story tellers.

But we know better.

They are the speakers of the truth. They are the children of wisdom. They are the keepers of imagination. They are the administrators of magic. They are the hope for the future.

Their’s is the impossible task.

Save imagination. Save the world.


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