Imagination

Why do the deepest sentiments influence me to write?

I have realized something. As much as I admire this world and all its wonders, I believe I love more of what I cannot touch or see--I mean the world of imagination.

I do not only analyze imagination--I enjoy it--its adventures, scenes, traits, spontaneity, depth, and so much more. It is infinite and incessantly rolling through my mind.

Reality is what irritates me more sometimes. The fact that it can disagree with imagination is frustrating and degrading in feeling. In my mind I wish for so many things to be true in reality. But there is a way to make imagination real: through external creation. It is equivalent to writing thoughts on paper.

This is what I would like to do. And why can't I? Only some practice and improvement in vocabulary and writing will help me gain the skill. But what ultimately keeps me? What keeps me from doubting this possibility? What prevents me from making this dream a reality?

I want to place my imagination in front of me and in front of others--for pure entertainment--whether to perplex or uplift--I want it created my way.

One's occupation is for you. It is not to impress others, not to gain social mobility. Irrelevant. That is not my intent. I want to do something I love; I want to live for what I love. The purpose of living can ultimately be for such reasons.

I feel this is my purpose: to love, to create, and to be happy. Oh, how powerful are the senses! But my imagination is the most powerful--for it often controls the senses and cannot be controlled.

Expression is putting thoughts into reality. Expression leads to understanding and eventually understanding others--or maybe only as little as listening depending on the openness of minds.

Such feelings so overcoming on my soul. Will this state of mind fail me later? Will it fade upon growing old? I wish to always be this sensible and insensible--I wish to always feel this way.

English Major

I get a variety of reactions when I tell others what I'm studying at my university. Those that truely understand the value of my decision either have been to college or have been explained to before that not everyone fails at being a success with an english major.

The reaction that makes me smirk the most is confusion--a "what will you do with that?" is hilariously annoying to me. I simply tell them that I plan to be either a university professor/fiction writer. I wait for those faces--those particular faces that scream ignorance and doubt. Judgements made swiftly in the minds of those who don't rightly possess such power. They don't know me. 

And although I stand firm on my decision, it is those silent reactions that stir concern within me. But I will not fail. This concern is now my motivation to prove to the world and myself that I will be the exception--the low percentage--the rarity in society's clouded eyes.