It was just my imagination

Sometimes sitting still, disappearing, I recall the experience of Time as a child.

In  the quiet living room drinking a cup of coffee before the start of a busy day I remember; I wanted to be liked, win the race, be a superhero and Lipton soup salesman like my dad. Nothing was crucial. But I could drown in the shower or die in the dark. Something was always under the bed. I believed in God and my parents and that everything would be alright. It was just my imagination.

And I was not responsible.

 

 

 

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5 thoughts on “It was just my imagination

  1. A fascinating and complex subject Chris, well worth long and serious dialogue, much of which has been done in past eras.
    On the one side is the line of reasoning which says that no, you were not responsible at that stage of life, and for a long time to come.
    On the other side is the understanding that we are not born into this world as blank slates –that in fact in the realm of being, spirit, energy –whatever it may be — you in fact made a choice that touches on every aspect of your life from beginning to end. All based on your need to know — as pure spirit — what sort of issues and questions you need to resolve in space and time , that are for reasons unknown, necessary feedback for the realm of being from which we come,
    No solid answers here –only more questions — and that alone greatly appeals to me.
    A lovely and provocative post —

    • Al, I must smile (warmly) at how you take my very simple observations of life… and… and… and fly with them!

      (Hey, you never replied to my last email about a good time to get together… next week is better than this week would have been in any case, but the times and days are probably still the same. Fire me off an email.)

  2. ‘Something was always under the bed’ is the line that stirred my own memories of ‘Time as a child’ … the unknown, the expectant, the anticipated … as world is ever young to each child born.

  3. Responsibilities can be a greater burden than the fear that there’s something under the bed… But I suppose it’s nice to have faith in one’s parents. The question that arises from this piece, is whether you thought then… despite the faith and the imaginary fears… that you could drown in the shower, or die in your bed? And what was it that gave rise to such fears…?

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