Death of Imagination

Death of Imagination



    Unable to be quenched by such thoughtless behavior as picking up the arm, moving it to the mouth, moving the jawbone up and down a few times and swallowing leisurely, the mind wanders restlessly, bored with the near mindlessness of the common activity of eating. The mind fumes as its captor forces it to watch mindless people on a colorful box spew pointless jokes out of their detached mouths. It wonders how the other minds stand it, being held hostage within the cramped compounds of the inner skull. The only freedom it gets is at night when it can weave the objects it was forced to see, the odors it was forced to smell and the things it was forced to touch, into adventures and stories. Even with its nightly adventures, the mind is never free, being force to choose from the tiny collection of experiences that its captor throws in for it, scraps of things, sometimes suitable to ease the thirst for excitement, such as books, and other times, not enough to even come close, such as movies. This inadequate activity leaves the mind in a dismal shape, bored, and ready for anything to do. As the mind watches pointless images flash by, flash by like the minutes, the hours it waits for the torture to end, it longs to do something else, anything else, however it is not able to communicate this with its captor.

    From time to time a book may be opened and the mind will nearly jump out of its prison with unaccustomed joy at this unknown world of mystery and magic. But all too soon, the book is closed, the magic dies and the mind is forced to grasp onto these memories until the lucky chance that some new ones can be made. Time passes, the mind begins to wilt as books become legends and eating and watching mindless people becomes more and more habitual. Finally, it has been more than five years since the smooth paper covered in words and filled with a banquet of the best tasting stories and memories imaginable has crossed into the now grey field of the almost dead mind. Instead of feeding on adventure and excitement, it settles for news, a pointless anecdote and information of people it will never meet. The captor has won, it has beat its captive down, so that even these occasional nuisances at night are demolished and sleep comes without a fuss while the minds waits patiently, twiddling its thumbs like the good mind it knows it should be, and waits for the day to begin. It’s not a new day, because the days roll by, every day the same as the one before it. Finally, the mind crumbles. It is broken by famine and gives itself completely up to its captor, waiting to be butchered, and molded into whatever its master wishes, for truly that is what its captor now is. Imagination is dead.