Sunday, 11 January 2015

Day 7/365

What I'd like to know is if everyone else has the same sort of imagination that I have. Why, I live whole lives based on one tiny whim. It's exhausting to be in here sometimes.

I've constructed some beautiful narratives based upon the flicker of meaning in eye contact, or the twist of a sentence in a conversation that's gone somewhere you didn't expect it would. 

Sometimes I think the greatest struggle in life is things not turning out how you expect, and for this I blame my overactive imagination. It's also a great indicator, because if I am truly content, I have no need of the narratives. A friend was talking about her imaginings the other night and she was explaining how involved she gets with them until suddenly, they're over, and they're no fun anymore, and she's not sure what she was thinking in the first place. 

My imaginings are mainly about my parallel life - the life I live somewhere else in the world. Maybe I live in a tiny flat in Montreal, and sit staring out the window at the snow falling, drinking wine. Maybe I live in Scotland somewhere with my future husband (he's probably Scottish, otherwise why am I living in Scotland?!) drinking scotch, because Scotland.

My imaginings are also rather idealistic and romantic. Another friend, once upon a time, called these "screensaver thoughts", and I tend to feel it's a good term - to stare off into space while you live your ideal life does save the reality of your existence from burning itself into your eyeballs. 

It's not that I don't love my current life. Because I really do like it. I have a collection of friends that I challenge anyone anywhere in the world to beat. I have the means of escape, I have a job that I actually enjoy, there's not a lot else I need. The future husband is very negotiable. He's really only in my Scotland-specific imaginary life, and that's because I like the accent so very much.

I've gotten distracted by all this. My point was to explore imagination, and what I use it for. I guess it's really about sneaking off for a holiday when you can't afford an actual one. I feel like if I was a fiction writer I'd have more tales to tell here, but I suspect I'm not. Besides the small lies I tell to get through my day-to-day life, the imaginings of my other lives are really all I have. And for now, just being able to have them is enough.

Perhaps that's why the future husband is negotiable. Because in my imaginings he has little to no actual impact upon my life, and that my friends is not how they work.

I'm publishing this to come back to later. There's something here.

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