I wish my mind could wander

When I was a child, I mastered the art of disconnecting from the world. Very easily I spent fifty percent of my time in faraway lands of obsidian skies; of great chasms voiding deep within the earth where I could see myself zig-zagging amidst amethyst pillars of old. All it took me to take these travels was a split fraction of a second and gone I would be.

As I grew up I very often convinced myself that I needed to keep busy — that I somehow needed to keep myself entertained with something. And so it was that during my teenage years, particularly those spent in high school, I would spend hours on end at school, drive back home, and repeat the odyssey once more. Growing as an adult was no better as I started by being over-productive when it came to my writing, and gave up thinking of otherwordly landscapes and stories that would actually inspire me.

I became one of the active workaholic kind who are always keeping themselves busy, and when they are not busy merely shut down. This is not the person I wanted to be, and this was not the path I wanted to walk. It was in this moment that I made a decision to be less busy — to live in the moment and enjoy the little things as they came. After almost a decade of not slowing down, however, it turned out that my mind had forgotten how to disconnect.

It was not long ago that I was simply sitting in the couch and I wanted to be a child again. Not so much because of the lack of real responsibilities part, but more because I wanted to imagine something silly and live it as if it was my very life, if even for a split second. This activity that I did for so many years — or more accurately — this ability that I had since I was a child was nothing short of lost. I could not imagine myself as a hulking chunk of metal blasting away at the monsters mankind feared, or being light as a feather and wandering in endless fields under starred skies. I was just myself not being able to conjure a deep figment of imagination and instead thinking about it as a film or book to be told.

After this little moment I was left wondering. At one point does one simply stop being a child, and doing things children do, and instead focuses on being busy not fifty but one hundred percent of the time?

As an adult I see the practicality of losing such a part of myself, and very well understand why I should or can live without it. At the same time, however, I often find myself just wanting to be silly.

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