Liquid imagination drips from his pillow at night.
His dreams paint themselves across his walls.
When I touch them, they move like model constellations.
Canons rattle off of the pirate ships.
Trailing gowns fly behind princesses as they run
Through flower-filled gardens
From red-clawed dragons.
He always defeats them.
That’s the best thing about dreams.
His princess is the one with the auburn hair
Loose and wild.
She’s always in his dreams
And she never wears shoes.
When I asked him about it he said,
“She doesn’t like shoes.”
I’m in no position to argue.
Mothers don’t question their children’s dreams.
Her name is Idina,
Her parents rule Pompera,
A wonderful country in a different dimension.
“Any child can access it,” he said.
I don’t recall accessing any other dimensions when I was a child.
But things do seem to change between generations.
And adults tend to forget.
They leave colorful fields with endless horizon
For cramped black and white offices.
As you grow big,
The world shrinks up until your imagination
Gets tucked away into the attic with your first grade art projects.
Or you tweak it to make it “practical”.
Imagination 2.0, the machine.
All numbers, no pictures.
All walls, no horizons.
All work, no play.
No wonder adults become alcoholics.