Monday, 2 January 2012

I’m laying in bed, watching Philosopher’s Stone, and avoiding the important conversation I’ve been meaning to have with myself. It’s an all too common conversation and I’m absolutely dreading the thought of having to have it again. Instead, I’m distracting myself with Harry Potter and all the glorious childhood memories it’s bringing back. Back then, I wasn’t such a confused, neurotic individual. Instead, I was convinced that magick, in all of it’s glory, truly existed. I spent my days pretending I was Alice, searching for the rabbit hole every where I went. When I wasn’t desperately trying to be Alice, I instead created my own characters. I would bribe my younger sister into playing with me, forcing her to live out my imagination in front of any family members who would sit and watch for longer than five minutes. I would write stories, countless stories, about the most bizarre things. Some of them were pretty awful (including one ‘novel’ written aged 5 about a boy called ‘Charlam’. I couldn’t pick between Charlie and Adam, so he was stuck with the name Charlam. There was a whole series about him!) but some of them truly captured my warped imagination and limitless optimism. And thinking about all of this has got me thinking: What happened to our imaginations? Why does all of that magick and wonder have to disappear once we become adults? Why do we need to grow up? I’m not too keen on that school of though. So I’ve had an idea. One that will keep me amused, entertained, and enthralled. Send me your favourite stories of childhood imagination to my inbox. Your stories will remain private unless you express that you want them published on my blog. I’m fascinated to hear your stories. Will we ever grow up? Should we ever have to? Let me know… Don’t be shy!

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