~ from OCTOBER 2004 ~
Writing is my refuge. It is a sacred space to be alone with thoughts and ideas and feelings that wouldn’t be all right in the real world, emotions that might threaten to overrun a daily existence. Odd then, that writing has so often been a way of survival for me, a way of making it through a reckless world. It is a lost art, I fear. Everyone has ADHD these days, the kids are on medication, and where once was a quick tantrum is now an extended time-out session. No one bothers to read. One of my cousins, a girl of twelve, said that she doesn’t like the Harry Potter books because they’re boring compared to the movies. I felt sad, and old. Sad for what she was missing; old for pitying the young.
What must it be like to grow up without any need for imagination?
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