Imagination became a problem for me
When I started to believe that I had
to do something with it
Other than enjoy the places it took me.
The need to explain my imaginary places,
The need to share them,
The need for them to be understood
I made these needs up at some point
I don't remember when.
People said when I was young,
"You'll be a Writer."
And I write every day
Without the capital.
But it feels like I'm failing
every time I imagine something beautiful and strange
And I can't find a way to express
the wonder of it
the mystery of it
the magic of it
To anyone else.
I'm mocked by my daydreams
Butterflies I cannot catch
without stilling them.
When you chase something, looking back you remember the pursuit
and not the thing itself.
I miss what I experienced when I didn't worry about how to share my personal vistas
with all of you.
Not that you did anything wrong.
I told myself
That I was an insufficient audience.
I told myself to feel lonely
If I couldn't bring the rest of you along.