As a child, I was an over-imaginative dreamer, who loved to read, to draw, and above all, to play. Now that I am what people would consider grown-up, I still cling to the childish aspects of all that I do. Part of this is because I am still trying to convince myself that yes, I am an adult now. But I also want to embrace the childlike joy in all things because if I don’t – or worse, I can’t find some quality to be joyful about – then I have succumbed to the boring, hum-drum everyday that wears all of us down. The next thing you know you’re collecting Medicare checks and living in Florida. Yikes.
I find myself abnormally conscious of the passage of time. Maybe it is because I have too many loved ones who were snuffed out too soon. Maybe I have too many regrets already and don’t want to accumulate any more. Maybe it’s all those summers I spent growing up watching Days of our Lives with my mom and sister (“Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.”). In any case, I am tired of doing what is expected of me. As such, I don’t want to be doing things that don’t bring me happiness or make me giggle. I don’t want to settle for a cookie-cutter lifestyle. I want the freedom of my childhood back.
So I continue to dream. I play make-believe everyday. I conjure words on a page and harness the whirling dervish of my mind. Sometimes it’s surrealist gibberish. Sometimes I surprise myself. But it propels me forward. Writing needs an element of play to succeed; otherwise, it just becomes work.